


Maybe It Was Memphis

by Princess of Geeks (Princess)



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: AU, First Time, M/M, Modern Setting, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-13
Updated: 2010-03-13
Packaged: 2017-10-07 23:00:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 73,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess/pseuds/Princess%20of%20Geeks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU set in the late 1950s. Jack is a Navy pilot, Daniel is a university professor. They meet in a jazz bar in Memphis, Tennessee. The story is an unabashed romance that includes some hurt/comfort but is mostly first-time love against a backdrop of Cold War politics. The title is indeed that song recorded by Pam Tillis, but it is definitely not songfic, and the mood of the piece is jazz and not country and western. I'm just sayin'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elenya](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Elenya).



> So many people contributed information and inspiration for this story. Thanks to gaidheil, wyomingnot, rodneyscat, msilverstar, synecdochic, avidrosette, orca girl, green grrl, catspaw and paian.

_  
From black, fade in on four servicemen, finding their table in an after-hours club on Beale Street...._

~~~~

_Jesus, this better have been worth it,_ Jack thought, settling into his creaking captain's chair and looking carefully around for a waiter. No one in the crowd around him met his eyes. Boyd was shushing Kawalsky, for the third time, as Kawalsky complained loudly that he didn't see any unattached babes and that O'Neill had promised them babes, dammit. He slapped the white tablecloth to make his point, and the little candle flame jumped in its smudged globe.

 

"He did no such thing," Ferretti hissed, as he brought up the rear and took the chair on the far side of Kawalsky. "And put a sock in it!" The jazz fans at the next table were glaring at them. Jack was about to lean in and say something himself when Boyd's sharp whisper finally made Kawalsky subside, scowling.

Jack rolled his eyes and turned to the stage. They'd gotten in the door at the tail end of a song, and Jack hoped it wasn't the tail end of the set. It wasn't quite one yet, though, so they were probably arriving right on time. He'd been advised to come late. The quintet was trading off the short "fours" of its finale, and Jack's attention was quickly caught by the gorgeous callbacks of the drummer, who was elaborating on the quirks he heard in each "four" in an astonishingly complex way, given the short time he had to make his musical points. Jack felt a grin spreading across his face, and then he was sucked in to the music so fast and so deeply that Boyd had to elbow him when the waitress, her cruelly plucked eyebrows raised high, had asked him, "What can I get you, sir," for the second time. She had fluffed-up bangs and a starched, streaky pageboy. Ferretti was waiting for Jack to order, because this was Jack's mission and Jack's dime. That had been the deal they'd made, back at the air station.

"Shots -- Southern Comfort -- and beers, all the way around, thank you," Jack said, and the waitress nodded and turned away. Ferretti smiled approvingly, and Jack saw Boyd restrain Kawalsky from pinching her tempting ass as she headed off, effortlessly hefting her full tray of beers and mixed drinks on one palm.

The place was crowded, and smoky, and, as Jack had figured, the four of them upon their arrival had just about doubled the number of whites in the big, low ceilinged room. The doormen had done a lot of glaring, and Jack had watched a bouncer pace them, over against the far wall, all the way to their table. No one he'd glanced at seemed the least bit reassured by the uniforms. But they were in, and seated, and so far, so good. He'd had to do quite a sales job on his buddies to get them to agree to come at all, to say nothing of the tips he'd bestowed and the favors he'd begged from everyone from the cab driver to some of their trainees from town, to get the right information to get them in the door. But Jack had vowed he wasn't leaving Memphis without hearing some real blues, even if it meant doing some outright pimping for Kawalsky later tonight. That guy was no music fan; he just wanted to get out on the town and get drunk and get laid, preferably in that order. Jack could skip the getting laid part. He wanted to get a taste of this music in person, and enjoy their all-too-brief leave, and he wanted some friendly company for it.

Kawalsky had subsided, distracted by the ritual of pulling out his cigarettes and lighting up. Boyd passed Jack a cigarette and lit one for himself, and Jack grunted his thanks. As he caught the lighter Ferretti tossed to him, he glanced around their immediate area. Yup, about six tables over was the other group of whites -- two couples, probably locals. They were better dressed than most of the downtown crowd. And there, closer to his own table, at a small table in the shadow of a pillar, a white guy in a linen suit was sitting all alone. That made Jack do a quick and invisible double take, first, because he was surprised to see someone so obviously upscale in here alone, and second because when he focused in on the guy, the guy was staring straight at him.

Leaning one elbow on the table, a half-full cocktail tumbler before him on the otherwise empty spread of tablecloth, the man held Jack's eyes long enough for Jack to start to wonder what was up. The guy was handsome, and that and the surprise were more than enough to prompt Jack to hold the gaze and not look away. Then, the guy let one corner of his mouth relax into something that would have begun a smile if it had gone on longer, and he turned his head away and lifted his glass to his lips. Jack let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding and looked down to see he'd let half his cigarette burn up. He tossed it in the ashtray, got the pack and lit another before he let himself look again. Whoa. That was definitely not the kind of eyefuck he'd been expecting in here. He quieted his breath and glanced across the room.

The guy was like someone you'd see at Rick's Cafe Americain, and he was definitely slumming. He was wearing an open-necked dress shirt under the jacket, and Jack let himself admire the clean-shaven profile, the lingering almost-smile. The man's auburn hair was cut almost as military-short as any of the guys at Jack's table, and he looked relaxed, yet as if he was waiting for something. Jack got the feeling that even though he was still examining the ice cubes in his glass, the guy could tell Jack was looking at him.

Jack took a deep breath, and another drag of his Camel. The music claimed his attention again. It was the guitar player in the lead this time, and indeed -- these were the real blues he'd come downtown to hear. Jack narrowed his eyes and got lost again in the music.

The waitress surprised him, sliding an arm between him and Boyd to serve their drinks, and then waiting in expectant silence. He put some bills on her tray, and stole a glance at the man in the linen jacket. Yeah, he was looking again, right into Jack's eyes, intent. The shot of bourbon was just slightly cool, a smooth burn that went into him like the saxophone solo, and Jack closed his eyes to taste it.

But he coughed on it, just barely managing to set the glass down without splashing, because the waitress had blurted, "_Hey!_," and that slap was her hand, connecting hard enough with Kawalsky's face to rock him back in his chair.

Jack was on his feet in an instant, and the bouncer and a guy in a suit that Jack figured for the manager were already closing in.

"Hey, we don't want any trouble," Jack said, spreading his hands, palms out, and easing between Kawalsky and the others.

"Doesn't look like it from here," the manager said, folding his arms. The bouncer hovered.

"Stupid honky pinched me in the butt, Mr. Keller," the waitress said, gripping her empty tray as if ready to whack Kawalsky with it.

"Thank you, Audra." Keller was pulling out a chair at their table, and sitting down. The musicians had never faltered, and Jack, looking around, decided to pull out a chair and sit, too, sparing a glare for Kawalsky. Out of the corners of his eyes he saw several men around them returning to their chairs, except for the guy in the jacket, who, it seemed, had taken an interest, because he was coming closer, looking concerned.

"You gentlemen over here from Millington?" Keller was demanding, as he helped himself to a Camel from the pack on the table. The diamond on his pinky caught the light from the big Zippo, sending a flare of blue toward Jack. He wore a nice dark suit, narrow tie, but if you looked a little closer the suit was well worn, a little shiny around the shoulders. Jack leaned back at the overwhelming hit of hair pomade. Keller dragged on his cigarette and smiled without warmth.

"That's right," Jack answered, into the cloud of smoke. He felt Boyd relax beside him.

"Most of you Navy boys we get down here are good customers, but to be honest," and he leaned on his elbows, ostentatiously blowing smoke toward the ceiling, "I've seen that these music-only spots get a little tame for your tastes. Why don't you let me steer you toward some more interesting entertainment."

"Like what?" Kawalsky said, perking up and leaning in.

"Across the alley, for example, if a person was to go out the back way here, if they had a friend who could show them the way, you understand, the joint is more ... jumpin', if you know what I mean."

"Lead on, my friend," Kawalsky said, getting to his feet and draining his beer. "We're all for it. And I'm sorry about -- you know -- Audra."

Keller didn't answer Kawalsky. He just looked at Jack, obviously waiting for him to endorse the plan. Jack clamped down on his temper. They'd just arrived, goddammit, and Kawalsky had to go and ruin it.

Movement behind Ferretti caught Jack's eye, and he straightened, then frowned. The guy with the too-perfect mouth and the jacket was standing beside Kawalsky, who looked him up and down.

"Are you going to have to eject them, Mr. Keller?" the stranger said, mildly, looking at Jack.

"Why, good evening, Daniel," Keller said, easily, not seeming the least bit surprised at the intervention. "Friends of yours?"

"Not yet," Daniel said, folding his arms. "Surely you're just going to send them on over to the _Side Door_?"

"Looks that way." Keller stabbed out his Camel, easily and without hurry, and got to his feet. "J.B. over there by the far pillar can show you the door to use. Just tell them you're friends of mine, looking for a good time on Beale Street." He slid the chair in and nodded his farewell. "Daniel."

Jack shoved at the chair leg with his foot, pushing it out again, and Daniel hesitated just a fraction of a second -- Jack saw it -- and then pulled it out and sat down. Kawalsky was still standing there with his arms outstretched, overplaying his disappointment. "Come on, Jack -- you heard the man! Jumpin'! Fun! Babes!"

The musicians were finishing their number, and the trailing notes of the big bass, and the shivery final touches of the crash cymbal, matched the strange thrill that had started down Jack's spine the minute he caught sight of Daniel coming toward the table.

Jack shook his head. "You had to do it, Charlie. You had to screw up a perfectly good concert."

Kawalsky shrugged, and put on his "who me?" expression.

"So you're the jazz fan of this bunch, eh?" Daniel said.

"Yeah, well, I'm alone here apparently. You can lead a whore to culture...." Jack waved his hand dismissively at Kawalsky and Ferretti, both of them clearly eager to scram now that they had a good excuse. Jack leaned back defiantly. "Don't catch any diseases, guys. I won't wait up."

At that, Boyd put his hands on the table and slowly stood. Jack glanced up at him and Boyd held the glance. His eyebrows moved, just a bit, silent question, and Jack cocked his head toward Kawalsky, just a bit, silent answer. Boyd didn't look happy, but he shot a glance at Daniel, assessing, and then he straightened and edged around the table to herd the others out.

Kawalsky tried to turn back for some sort of parting shot, but Boyd stopped him, gripping his nape and pushing him along the narrow aisle, toward the back door Keller had indicated. Jack watched them recede through the crowd. He drew a breath, trying to quiet his heart, and reached for the pack of Camels Ferretti had abandoned. He kinda needed the buffer of the lighter and the smoke to meet those eyes -- so surprisingly blue, and now, so close.

"So. Your friends weren't really out tonight for the music, I gather," Daniel said, folding his hands on the table and leaning in slightly.

"Not so much," Jack said, frankly staring now, not trying to hide it. Daniel's smile brightened, and he held out his hand across the table.

"Daniel Jackson," he said.

Jack quickly transferred his cigarette to his other hand to shake. Warmth, and a strong dry grip, exploding whatever shadowy stereotypes were floating around the edges of his mind in association with the linen suit. "I'm Jack." He hesitated, considering giving a fake name, but then thought, _Ah, hell_. "Jack O'Neill."

Daniel's glance swept to his uniform shoulders and back to his face, and he would have asked some follow-up about Jack's rank and his business in Memphis, Jack was sure of it, but the bass man was counting off the next tune and then the musicians were off -- this time a screaming bebop piece that showcased the considerable talents of the saxophone, and Daniel let all conversation drop in favor of music.

They didn't say another word to each other until the next break, but soon Audra came around again, and Jack watched Daniel's mouth while he ordered himself a gin and tonic with lime, and another shot and beer for Jack. Jack noted that Audra had gone right to Daniel, obviously avoiding Jack's side of the table. When she returned, Daniel paid, and Jack let him, without commenting. He tasted his whiskey and found it was Southern Comfort, and he knew he hadn't been imagining the other man's earlier attention. The music crashed around them, an ornate tumble of virtuosity. Daniel was rapt, still, not even tapping his foot or swaying, as so many in the audience were. His chin was slightly lifted, his lips parted.

Just like in a poker game, it was time to raise the stakes, and Jack decided that he definitely had the nerve. He extended his hand, brushed the back of Daniel's, and got his attention. He held Daniel's eyes and lifted his shot, and they toasted, a little salute without touching glasses, and drank. Daniel took a careful swallow; Jack tossed back his shot. And when he set the empty on the table, and turned back to the stage, he grabbed the arms of his chair and scooted it a few inches closer to Daniel. Then he was still, waiting, and watching the musicians, but in a few minutes, he felt Daniel's foot slide to touch his, and he didn't move away.

The whiskey warming him, he let himself focus on the music, yet he was never unaware of the man beside him, sitting so near.

As the second set ended, the applause and cheering was raucous, and Jack and Daniel joined in enthusiastically. The musicians put their instruments to rest and drifted toward the bar, and Jack glanced at his watch. It was a little after three. He looked up to see Daniel watching him, and he smiled.

"Turning into a pumpkin?" Daniel said. The smile seemed to turn shy.

"Nah -- the evening is young."

At that, Daniel's smile changed. It bloomed, becoming pleased, warm, even eager. He squared his shoulders and drained his third cocktail (Jack had been counting, and Jack found himself watching the muscles move in his neck as he swallowed) and he put the tumbler down with a thump.

"I can drop you somewhere." He tucked in his chin as he spoke, and his hands were in his lap, under the table's edge, out of sight.

"Sounds good," Jack said, trying for neutral. He was in this now, all the way. He'd made that very clear, he hoped. Though he'd ditched the others, he had no qualms when it came to taking care of himself, even in this neighborhood. And he was ... ready ... to see what Daniel might have in store for them. Okay, that was an understatement. His head had been turned; the music and the company and probably the whiskey were all combining to make him ready, willing, and eager to get this Daniel guy alone -- he was about as eager, now, for that as Kawalsky had been to find some girls. Jack had done this dance before, but not often enough to feel a hundred percent confident of the steps. Still. He wanted this. No doubt about it. He stood up, and Daniel did, too, and Jack followed him out of the club. Daniel moved through the crowd easily, and a couple of people greeted him as he passed.

Beale Street was much quieter than it had been at midnight, but as Jack looked around, he could see lights in some windows, and the faint sound of music from a couple of after-hours bars, further up the street. The heat of the day had long since bled from the pavement, but the air was heavy and damp. Jack breathed in -- asphalt and garbage and rotting brick and the distant hint of mimosas, and Daniel yanked a handkerchief out of his pocket and sneezed.

"Bless you," Jack said.

"Thanks," Daniel said, stuffing the handkerchief away. "I'll pay for it for a week -- hanging around in all that smoke all night, but it was worth it to get to hear Zoot Sims."

"I'd better have my nightcap now, then, and not smoke in your car," Jack said, and Daniel looked at him, and his look said, _how polite; amazing._

Jack lit a Camel and put away his lighter, and Daniel watched him, hands in his pockets, as they walked along. Jack was casting around for something to say.

"I'm pretty sure your friends are fine," Daniel said before he could collect his thoughts. "Mr. Keller thinks he's the real Mayor of Beale Street, and he's mostly a pimp, but he's not known for letting his customers get clubbed over the head or anything. At least not for pinching waitresses."

"Oh, I wasn't worried about them. They're big boys."

Daniel smiled sidelong at him, and pursed his lips as if he were changing what he was about to say. "Good. Wouldn't want you to worry."

They walked along in silence, Daniel watching the sidewalk, Jack watching him. Daniel seemed to come back to awareness of where they were; his thoughts had been a million miles away.

"There's my car," Daniel said, pointing to a newish glossy black Pontiac at the curb, and he came around to Jack's side to unlock it and open the door. As he did so, he glanced up and smiled, a little sheepishly, a little self-consciously, as if he knew how calculated this all was. Jack smiled back, not sheepish, not self-conscious, and threw away his cigarette and got in the car.

He settled in the corner, so that he could watch Daniel drive.

"Where're we going?" Jack said softly. He felt, suddenly, like he didn't know what to do with his hands, so he interlaced his fingers and rested them on his stomach.

Daniel drew a visible breath. "I thought we'd go to my place."

"Sounds good."

Daniel shot him a look. "It's not far; well, it's out of downtown, but as Memphis goes, it's not far. Not over in Germantown or something, I mean."

"It could be clear out of Shelby County and I'd never know. I just got here a month or so ago."

Daniel glanced his way. "You -- you're at the NAS, right?"

"That's right. Pilot training."

"You're training to be a pilot?" Daniel sounded incredulous.

"No, we're training the pilots. The four of us; they brought us in to give the latest batch of guys some finishing touches, I guess you could say."

"Ah," Daniel said. He seemed to run out of words, then, and Jack was content to let him drive, out of the battered, dying downtown, through a rambling neighborhood of run-down historic houses, and then on into a band of forty- or fifty-year-old homes that reminded Jack of his own suburb, back in Chicago. Eventually Daniel wound off the main streets and into a neighborhood, and he pulled the Pontiac into an alley behind a corner house -- a massive brick foursquare with a red tile roof. _Dad would have appreciated that roof,_ Jack thought. But just now, thinking about his dad was definitely striking the wrong note.

Daniel killed the engine, and they got out. The block was quiet with that chilled, almost-dawn hush. A dog barked in the distance.

"Time for the milk trucks," Jack said, just to fill the silence, as Daniel led him up a brick path, between two huge magnolias, to the back steps. There was a deep, brick veranda on the back of the house, just like the front, and Jack could see the kitchen light was on inside. Daniel didn't answer, but Jack looked at his back and figured he was smiling.

Some impulse, some wish for confirmation before he actually stepped inside, made him reach up and touch Daniel's arm. He stopped immediately and turned.

Jack left his hand on Daniel's elbow, searching his face, narrowing his eyes a little. The path was dark. What did he want to say? Why had he stopped?

"It's just me," Daniel said. "I live alone here; it was my mother's house, but she's... It's just me."

"Okay," Jack said, and he slid his hand up Daniel's arm, feeling he was groping, fumbling, but he kept sliding, over the firm swell of his shoulder, on across, until he cupped Daniel's jaw. They stood there, staring at each other, and Daniel put his hand over Jack's. It was clammy now, as if Daniel was nervous.

"I'm from Chicago, originally," Jack blurted, because he was looking at Daniel's mouth, and he was fairly sure he wasn't supposed to lean in and kiss him.

"Chicago," Daniel echoed, like he was thinking of something else, and he dropped his hand and turned, and without thinking, Jack grabbed it. Daniel held on, and before Jack had time to feel stupid about such a teen-age gesture, they were up the back stairs and on the veranda and Daniel let go. There was a porch swing, and a willow at the corner of the porch, Jack noted, stupidly, and the feel of Daniel's cheek was still burning in his palm. Daniel opened the door, and they stepped into the kitchen.

The floor was black and white tile, and the cabinets were tall and glass- fronted and stuffed with crystal and china. The light was dim, and Jack only got a glimpse of the room, because Daniel went right on, cutting through a butler's pantry and emerging in the dining room. The crystal chandelier over the big table glittered in the light from the street. Daniel moved to a lamp on a corner table and clicked it on, creating a bubble of warm light around the two of them.

"Would you like a drink?" He wasn't looking at Jack. There were crystal decanters on the gleaming side board; several of them, all different shapes. That's where Daniel was looking.

"Maybe some water. I think I've had enough to drink."

Daniel, without a word, went back to the kitchen. Jack stood there, hands in his pockets, looking up at the chandelier. There was a red satin sock over its chain. There were at least five different patterns of crystals. Its arms held tiny white candles, half burned down.

Daniel came back with two glasses of water, and he'd left his jacket in the kitchen and turned up his sleeves. Jack accepted the water, and when their fingers brushed it took an effort to stop his flinch. He needed to calm down; he was wound as tight as the E string of Zoot's guitarist.

He gulped down half the glass and set it on the table. Daniel hadn't touched his. He'd set it on the table, and was watching Jack with an expression that Jack could only describe as hungry. It made Jack impatient, and it made him happy.

_You want it? Good. That's good._

Holding Daniel's gaze, he took off his coat and hung it on the nearest chair. Daniel swallowed. Jack came toward him and took him firmly by the shoulders, backing Daniel up until he was pressed against the plaster, between a little ornamental orange tree and the bay window with its gauze curtains. Jack leaned in, still gripping Daniel's shoulders, leaned right up against him, chest, hips, groin, thighs. He put his face in Daniel's shoulder.

The loose drape of the linen suit had been deceptive. This guy was strongly built; his shoulders were as broad as Jack's and he was almost as tall. He gave under Jack's touch, softening all over -- well, not quite all over. _Oh yeah._

Daniel's hands came up and scrabbled at Jack's back, then pressed, hard. He made a choked sound and his hips jerked forward. They were both hard, both holding back -- Jack could feel it. He opened his mouth, tasting starch, wishing for skin, and eased his hips forward in a slow rolling grind. Daniel's scrabbling had loosened his shirt tail, and a warm damp hand was smoothing up under his shirt, as far as it could get.

"Upstairs," Daniel choked out, and Jack squeezed his shoulders and reluctantly stepped back.

"Sure," he said, and he had to clear his throat to get the word out. Just a simple little word.

The master bedroom was big, spanning the entire front of the house, and Jack didn't have time to check it out. He had a quick impression of a fireplace at the far end, muted silvery wallpaper, a camelback sofa, the big oak bed, and then his attention was wholly on Daniel. Because Daniel was taking off his clothes. Hurriedly. He shoved out of his dress shoes, and he was unbuttoning his shirt, skinning out of his undershirt, opening his belt and his pants with quick, almost frantic, tugs. Jack tried to keep up, and when he'd gotten his pants mostly open, but was still in his undershirt, Daniel made that choked noise again and came toward him, his belt dragging the linen slacks and his boxers to ride below his hipbones.

He went to his knees and pushed in, moving Jack's hands away from his fly. Jack's knees went to jelly, and he gasped.

"Let me; I want to, all right? All right?" He didn't really seem to expect an answer. Jack's hands hovered; he didn't know what to do with them. It wasn't until a little later, when Daniel had yanked down both the zip of the uniform pants and Jack's briefs, when Daniel, eyes closed, was running his tongue and his lips along the shaft, tasting, gripping Jack's hip with one hand and digging in to his hair with the fingertips of the other, that Jack realized he'd rested his hands on Daniel's skull -- softly, cupping it, holding it.

Daniel was making this "Mm," sound, almost a purr, as he moved his mouth all along and around and over Jack's cock, prompting him to spread his feet as much as he could, pressing his thighs against his sagging waistband, trying really hard to keep his balance. Stranded in the middle of the room like that, no wall to lean on, no chair to fall into, staying upright was a real effort, and, he thought, that was probably a good thing, to have to concentrate so hard on something other than his dick.

_Jesus,_ he thought, and he probably said it, blurted it right out, when Daniel finally eased his mouth down and around, taking Jack deep, but slowly, slowly. _Oh, shit._

The cloud of ecstasy came down, blinding -- it was wet, tight warmth, and that probing, dancing tongue in the middle of it.... It was fantastic. It was too much. Way, way too much. His hands tightened, and he had to use more force than he wanted to to push Daniel's head back. Daniel's hands tightened, and he protested -- another of those sexy incredible sounds in his throat.

"God," Jack managed. "Lemme lie down."

"Okay," Daniel said, his hands still at Jack's groin, his face turned toward the floor. "Good idea." He let his hands drop, and Jack almost tripped, getting out of his pants. As an afterthought, halfway to the bed, he remembered to peel out of his undershirt.

The bed was golden oak, with a big head board and footboard of vertical squared-off spindles. The comforter and the sheets were all white, Jack saw, as he dragged them down and then turned to sit. Daniel was coming to him, naked now, too, and Jack couldn't take his eyes off Daniel's erection, shoving at him from a knot of reddish hair. Daniel climbed onto the bed and Jack leaned back, propping his head on a bent elbow. He wanted to see this. All this.

Daniel surged up between his legs and went right down on him again, taking him in, then easing back to lick his way along the shaft, then taking him down again.

"Christ, slow down," Jack said, amazed to see he mostly had control of his voice. "I'd like to enjoy this a while and if you keep that up...."

Daniel let Jack's dick slide free and bounce a little. He watched it, then smiled, and met Jack's eyes for a moment, and put his palms on Jack's thighs. "I'm kind of an impatient person, I guess," he said. "But I can slow down."

He moved, arranging Jack's leg to bend across his, leaning on an elbow, and in the process spreading Jack's legs a little wider than Jack was comfortable with, but hey. The guy was going down on _him,_ so he could deal with that okay. Then Daniel started licking him again -- slow, broad-tongued licks, and gently tugging at and fondling his balls while he did that, and Jack groaned and closed his eyes.

He felt Daniel smile.

This went on for quite a while, and Jack was aware of Daniel noticing his responses, and adapting to them, just as that drummer had woven his riffs out of the material the other players handed to him -- listening, paying close attention.

And when Daniel sank his mouth over the tip again, sucking and bobbing and giving Jack the feeling of fucking his tight gorgeous mouth, Jack bent his neck up until it hurt, and watched, and watched, and marveled, until his head fell back and he cried out because he was coming. It felt like Daniel swallowed it all, but Jack was a goner by then. He couldn't really tell.

He groped for Daniel's head, and found it, petting and combing with his fingers. Daniel settled against his legs, pressing his erection against a convenient section of calf, and Jack swore Daniel started to kiss his hip but turned it into more of a nuzzle, a smear of lips, at the last second.

They lay there for a while, Jack smelling lavender and old linen and furniture polish and his own come, petting Daniel's head the while.

"Wow," he said, finally, and Daniel chuckled, a throaty low rumbly sound that went straight to Jack's chest and made him smile. He found he could move; he got an elbow under himself, then the other, and raised up to look down at the man tangled in his legs. "What... what would you like?"

"What do you do?" Daniel returned, evenly. _God, no assumptions. That's right; that's how the game was played._ It was always so hard for Jack to remember the rules; there were rules. Strict rules. Like the no-kissing rule.

"I could do _that,_" Jack said, indicating with a jerk of his head what Daniel had just done to him, and he was rewarded by Daniel's slow smile.

"No kidding?" Daniel said, and he ran his hand along Jack's thigh, letting it come to rest cupping Jack's soft package.

"I said it, didn't I?" Jack's tone was sharper than he meant it to be, and Daniel's face shut down. He slid from between Jack's legs to lie on his back beside him, not touching, looking at the ceiling.

"That would be very nice," Daniel said. "I just didn't think.... Usually guys who like to get.... Oh, hell. Never mind. Yes. That would be very nice, thank you."

Jack was staring at him, staring at that movie-star profile again, so close, there on the pillows. This was unique, the way this guy thought out loud. Jack had never experienced anything quite like it before. Usually the sex was quick, and conducted with the bare minimum of verbal communication.

He sat up, and Daniel looked at his face, then quickly shifted his glance down to Jack's chest, his arms, and then away. Jack frowned. He put out a hand and smoothed along Daniel's chest, much less hairy than his own. That was nice. He did it again, a rough edge of skin in his palm snagging on a nipple, and Daniel's breath caught.

What the hell. This would be new -- the men in Jack's past weren't much for the nuzzling and the soft stuff -- but the girls always seemed to like it. Jack bent a knee, allowing him to lean against Daniel's side, and he put his mouth to the nipple, sucking a little, using his tongue, and Daniel flinched, hard, and his hands came to Jack's shoulders.

"Easy, now," Jack said, grinning, and sucked some more, his free hand sliding down Daniel's abs to find his very hard, very ready dick. It was wet already, jerking in Jack's hand as he squeezed.

"Ah," Daniel said, and then he muttered something that didn't sound like English. Jack shifted his weight so that he could keep one hand on Daniel's dick, and he let the firm nub slip away. He teased the nipple with his thumb as he moved his mouth slowly, slowly, from one hand down toward the other. He savored the smooth skin, not kissing, not really, past Daniel's waist and the shallow dip of Daniel's navel, and finally arrived at that patch of curly hair. He inhaled and pressed his lips to the base of the shaft, nuzzling in, getting a big hit of the musky clean scent of the man.

Maybe Daniel would know Jack had never done this before, and maybe not. But Jack was here, moved by some strange offer of parity, and if he knew what he himself liked, maybe that would be good enough.

Daniel grunted, and _writhed_ against the sheets, bumping his dick against Jack's cheek, making Jack's dick twitch though he was a ways from getting hard again.

"Okay, taking pity here," Jack said, smiling, because he realized how long it'd been that Daniel had been working him over, how long Daniel had been waiting. It was true that Daniel was apparently getting off on sucking Jack, but not, you know, getting _off_. Not yet.

Time for some relief, then. Jack swallowed, and moved slowly, winging it. He opened his mouth enough to let Daniel's dick sink in, shaping his lips around it. Strange -- the heavy thick shape of it; filling his mouth. He wasn't going to be able to match the deep action he'd just been treated to, he concluded regretfully, but he wrapped his hand around the base and pulled up, licking the welling tip, then pushed Daniel's dick into his mouth again.

So. Not so hard. And Daniel was liking this -- he'd grabbed the sheets with both fists, from what Jack could see, and was straining up, all his muscles taut.

"Easy," Jack murmured, the tip against his lips, on the way up, and squeezed a little with his hand. He tried not to smile, tried to seal his mouth around Daniel's cock, but it was just so _good,_ the taste, the feel of it in his mouth. He couldn't remember why, exactly, he'd never wanted to do this before. This was good. He closed his eyes. Slow, slow, up and down, licking, tasting.

"I'm coming," Daniel said, suddenly, distinctly, and he bucked and squirmed and groaned and pulsed into Jack's mouth. Jack couldn't manage it all -- there was so _much_ of it, but he swallowed what he could and let the rest run out, remembering what he liked when guys did this to him, letting Daniel's dick rest gently in his mouth, not licking, not sucking, just waiting it out. Daniel kept groaning, and jerked again, and he took a while to run down, the pulses coming from deep in his groin getting weaker and slower. Finally he was done, starting to soften, starting to sag a little, and he moved his hands from the sheets to Jack's head, petting. He moved like his hands felt heavy. Jack knew exactly what that was like. Feeling very pleased and accomplished, Jack shifted, and put his head on Daniel's stomach and closed his eyes. Daniel made one last muffled, groaning sound, and rested a hand on Jack's shoulder.

Jack must have dozed, because he woke himself up with a startled twitch. His jerk woke Daniel; Jack felt him move. Jack sat up. He hadn't been out long; it was still dark outside. He'd left his watch in the wreck of his slacks and socks on the floor. Daniel regarded him solemnly, one leg crooked, one arm behind his head. Jack let his eyes wander, trying to memorize the view -- the tuft of hair at his armpit, the smooth pale skin, the dick, either still half hard or getting interested again, lying against Daniel's thigh, the sag of balls that he'd not even spared any attention for, yet. A touch of regret, at that. He bent his knee and sat up straighter, wondering what to say. Again, Daniel was faster. He sat up and scooted back just a bit, so that their legs weren't touching any more.

"Do you have to go now?"

The implied invitation was a complete surprise. If he'd thought it through, which he hadn't, Jack would have assumed he would go -- that as soon as the sex was over, they'd get dressed and Daniel would take him back downtown, or perhaps call him a cab from here. But Jack had not thought it through, caught in the tumble of anticipation. And it almost sounded like he was being invited to ... not leave. Not yet. He did what his hand had itched to do from the moment Daniel had sat up and edged away. He reached, and cupped his fingers around the warm muscle of Daniel's calf.

"No, not right this minute. Unless you want to."

Daniel looked at Jack's hand on his leg. He looked up again. His hair was mussed. Jack wanted to muss it even more, but he sat still.

"Well, good. That's good. I ... want some coffee." Daniel looked down at Jack's hand again, and then he slid to his side of the bed and went to the closet. The long mirror on the closet door flashed, showing Jack himself, looking rather disheveled, as it swung by. "Do you drink coffee?"

Daniel, not looking at him, was tying the belt of a blue chenille robe and walking away. Jack scrambled up and found his pants and underwear, pulling them on and calling after his host, "Isn't it kind of un-American to not drink coffee? Isn't it kind of like a, a staple food or something?"

"I'll make some, then," Daniel said, still not looking back, and Jack followed him down into the big kitchen, snagging his water glass as they went through the dining room. The sky outside was just starting to turn gray. Daniel had a glass percolator that he put on the gas range, and he leaned on the limestone counter and watched it intently.

Jack didn't know what to do after he'd drunk his water and gently set the glass in the big porcelain sink, so he just stood there, leaning in the doorway, watching Daniel watch the coffee brew. For the first time, the silence seemed awkward. Yet Daniel had all but asked him to stay. Jack wished for a cigarette, considered getting his jacket and going out on the back porch to smoke, but he just stood there, watching Daniel. Jack'd had his dick in his mouth, just a bit ago, just upstairs. Now he was making coffee, in his own ordinary kitchen, in an old blue bathrobe, watching it as if it were some kind of dangerous science experiment.

"So you're a pilot." Daniel spoke to the percolator.

"Yeah."

"Navy pilot."

"Yeah."

Jack didn't want to be evasive, really, but he didn't want to talk about the Navy. He must have sounded evasive, though, because after a minute, Daniel said, "Sorry. I'm asking questions, and I shouldn't be."

"No, it's okay," Jack said, and crossed the tiles toward him. "I'm just, a little, distracted." Without thinking, he put his hand on Daniel's shoulder, and Daniel turned, and Jack could see his face. He had a thinking look. He had the barest glimmer of stubble along his jaw. Jack watched his mouth until he realized what he was doing, and then he squeezed Daniel's shoulder and let his hand drop.

Daniel turned back to the coffee. "You can smoke on the porch, if you want to, if you don't mind."

"Read my mind," Jack smiled. He retrieved his pack and his lighter, and went out the way they'd come in, leaving the door open, making sure he didn't slam the screen. He sat down in the porch swing, and watched as the coming dawn made the manicured lawn turn gray, put the color back into the old red bricks.

He finished one cigarette, tamping the butt carefully and putting it in his pocket, and then lit another. He could smell the grass. It had been recently cut. A little breeze came up, moving the leaves of the big willow at the corner of the veranda. Someone's windchimes rang, not too far away. The floor of the porch was a geometric mosaic, worn very smooth by years of footsteps. There was a tile missing, next to the wooden threshold. Daniel came backing through the screen, carrying two cups of coffee.

"Black okay," he asked, offering one.

"Black's fine," Jack said, holding his cigarette away self-consciously. Daniel hesitated, then sat down gently on the swing next to him. Jack sipped the coffee.

"I can take you back to the NAS, if you want. Or we could.... If you have a deadline."

Jack regarded him, the mussed hair, the reserved glance, the way the fronts of the bathrobe had opened when he'd sat down in the swing, opened so that Jack could see the nipple he'd sucked on earlier. He'd made that wonderful, growling moan when he'd come, up there in that big comfortable room. In that big white bed.

"It's a three-day pass," Jack offered, and took the last drag of his cigarette.

"Oh," Daniel said, and sucked in a big breath. He looked over the rim of his coffee mug at his lawn, squinting a little in the gray light. "That's ... nice. That's very nice."


	2. Chapter 2

Sitting on the porch swing, feeling the cool breeze on his shirtless chest, Jack watched Daniel absorb the idea that they might, just possibly, spent part... most... _all_ of the weekend together. Jack was aware of a dangerous eagerness pushing at the edges of his mind. He tried to push back. He didn't want to want this. He couldn't afford to want to want this. But Daniel looked surprised, and very awake, and like he was repressing a dictionary full of words. 

Daniel was resolutely staring straight ahead, along the length of the porch toward the street beyond the side yard. Jack followed his glance. A car went by, a swoosh of tires on pavement. The silence of early morning seemed louder after it passed.

After his pause and a gulp of coffee, Daniel went on, "Um, I'm.... I don't want to say too much, you know? But I'm glad. That you don't have to rush right back. Because we could..." Daniel leaned back in the swing and ran a hand through his hair, resting his cup on his thigh. His robe was parting, above and below his belt, in an alarming and very arousing way. He let his head fall back against the back of the swing with a thump that made Jack wince, then sat up abruptly. "We could have another cup of coffee." He stood, looking down at Jack, and Jack could feel the suppressed delight pouring off him. "I want a refill, do you need a refill, are you --?" Daniel pointed at the door, and at him, and back at the door, and it was all Jack could do not to burst out laughing.

"I'm fine, thanks."

Daniel stared at him. "I think I'm muffing this. Anyway." And he went into the kitchen.

Jack contemplated lighting another cigarette, but realized he was hungry and thirsty and not the least bit in the mood for more nicotine. He had plenty buzzing around in his system for the moment, and he was starting to crash, the excellent and very strong coffee notwithstanding. He'd been up all night after a very demanding day, after all.

"You're not muffing this," Jack called after Daniel. Some small brown birds had arrived with the dawn and were pecking at the grass. "And I don't want to say too much, either." He could understand Daniel's desire for reticence. There'd been only one guy Jack had ever gotten up close and personal with for more than a one night stand. It was better this way, safer if they kept a little distance, didn't talk like the girls always wanted to talk, afterward. It was for the best. Yes.

Daniel came back, his cup refilled. "Okay, then, today. This morning, anyway. We could.... Are you hungry? We could make some breakfast."

"We could go back to bed," Jack said, looking right into the other man's eyes, keeping his tone calm. Calmer than he felt. He drained his cup and reached to set it on the flat concrete railing of the porch.

Daniel smiled at him -- not the delighted smile; the evil, seductive smile. Jack realized he'd seen enough versions of Daniel's smile to actually make a start at cataloging them. Daniel backed up, opening the screen again, inviting Jack to go in first. Jack grinned back and came, picking up his mug on the way and putting it on the kitchen counter, pausing to fish his cigarette butts out of his pocket and stow them in the dirty cup.

Daniel, for his part, was pausing to top up his own coffee yet again, so Jack pushed through the other kitchen door, the one that didn't lead to the butler's pantry, and found himself in the back hall. One door was a dead end, a closet, but the other was the downstairs bathroom he'd figured had to be close by.

When he came out, he glanced around to orient himself, then went on past the back stairs and a room with a piano and then a closed set of French doors that led to a sunroom full of plants and wicker, until he found himself back in the big front room, facing the front stairs they'd used the night before.

Up in the master bedroom, Daniel was waiting for him by a window, his robe hanging open and loose, his dick already starting to fill. He was looking out at the street, sipping coffee. He glanced up when he heard Jack, and pulled the shade all the way down, blocking most of the light. One more taste of coffee, and then he pushed his robe off his shoulders and paced slowly to the bed. Jack watched him, forgetting that he should be undressing as well. Wide shoulders, wide chest, small nipples, narrow waist.... Like he'd said -- distracting. When Daniel was back in bed, Jack slid out of his slacks and briefs and draped them over the sofa, dimly remembering that if he was going to be here the rest of the day, at this rate his clothes would be wrinkled and completely un-presentable by the time he had to leave. He knelt and picked up his shirt and shook it out, too, spreading it over his slacks.

Daniel was watching him, one knee up, hands behind his head, when Jack turned. Jack stepped on his watch, flinched and swore, and Daniel laughed, then looked chagrined at himself.

"Sorry," Daniel said.

"Just call me Grace," Jack said.

"You don't look like a Grace."

"Well, I guess that's a good thing."

"I had an Aunt Grace."

"I did, too. It's one of those American staple things, like coffee. Drinking coffee."

"You're babbling," Daniel said, and his voice was hoarse, because by this time Jack had climbed on the bed and was running careful hands along Daniel's thighs and over the prominent hip bones and up, grazing ribs, then sweeping down again.

"So are you."

"I thought we weren't going to say too much."

"Can say a lot without saying a thing," Jack said, not really paying attention to his own words, fully in the zone, now, because, hey, no sleep to speak of, and the gritty ebb of the happy high from Round One, and most importantly, all the glowing pale skin under his hands. Yeah, he was definitely crashing.

"Don't I know it," Daniel breathed, and he was apparently trying not to arch, trying not to seem too eager, because all his muscles were tense. He was shaking a little.

"No sleep. Great sex. Crashing," Jack summarized.

"Oh, yeah," Daniel said. Jack's hands never paused.

"What would you --" and they both stopped and laughed, because they were saying the same thing at the same time.

Jack left off his petting and flopped onto his stomach beside Daniel, making sure he put a knee down first, so as not to do injury to his quickly hardening dick. Laughter felt so good. He hadn't expected laughter.

Daniel, smiling in a way that lit up his eyes like the morning sky, reached over and softly put his fingertips on Jack's lips, and Jack had to quash an immediate desire to kiss them. Because, kissing.

"I don't know if you would take this wrong, but what the hell. What I keep thinking about doing is..." Jack braced himself. He didn't know what in the world Daniel was going to ask for; it could be anything. His scenario-building imagination went in six directions at once, conjuring vivid pictures that were hot, dismaying, scary and kinky. He held his breath. Daniel's fingers feathered along his lips. "Kissing you. But only if you do that, of course."

Jack exhaled. _Oh. Well._

He elbow-walked a little higher in the bed, and brought his face very close to Daniel's. He stared at Daniel's mouth. Eased even closer.

No words necessary. Daniel breathed on him -- coffee and Listerine _hey no fair and just how bad is my morning breath_ \-- and met him halfway.

It was soft, and hot. Two hesitant presses of lips, testing, and then they opened their mouths to dive in. It was like falling, like drowning.

A couple of times, Jack had kissed like this with women -- bad women, rowdy women, women who had been eager for his mouth and unashamed of showing it. But he'd never kissed a man -- not like this, deep and dirty and intense. Not any way at all. Never thought that was part of the game.

They'd shifted automatically to their sides, and Jack had closed his eyes, and the pillows were soft and Daniel's lips were softer, and the rush of the kissing went right down his spine and on through his pelvis to his dick.

He fumbled with the arm he was lying on, finding that he'd already put his left arm over Daniel's waist without really intending to, and pushed his right hand between them to find Daniel's erection. When Jack's fingers closed around it, Daniel grunted, and jerked a little, and bit down gently on Jack's lip.

Jack, eyes still closed, kept kissing, lots of tongue, and stroked and squeezed Daniel's dick, and those moans tasted as great as they sounded.

About that time, Daniel's hand closed around Jack, and then he brought his other hand up to the back of Jack's head, pushing fingers into bristly hair. He pumped, sure and insistent and so very very good. Jack was lost in it -- warm strong hands, the deep, hypnotic kissing, the smell of sex and skin all over the bed.

When they came, it was too close to call who'd let go first, and they were still kissing -- kissing the whole time, lips sealed together, Jack's tongue as far into that mouth as he could push it. Jack's moan was strangled in his throat, and he tensed and pushed his hips forward and shot all over Daniel's flat stomach, making a puddle on the fancy sheets. He barely registered Daniel's orgasm through his own. They groaned, almost in unison, and rolled apart to lie on their backs and pant.

When Jack woke, he had rolled to the edge of the bed, and Daniel had rolled through the wet spot, following him, and was plastered, still heavy in sleep, against Jack's back. The room was hot and close, despite the lazy progress of the ceiling fan. By the shadows, it was midday.

_Shit,_ Jack thought, realizing where he was, still in this beautiful house, with the dried come of its beautiful owner spattered all over his stomach. He'd slept deeply. He felt rested, like he'd been _gone_. He took a deep breath.

Daniel muttered something and moved his hand, and Jack reflexively caught it and held it against his chest, then realized what he was doing.

_Shit._

Not at all what he'd imagined getting to do for his three-day pass.

He really, really, really needed a drink of water now. And a shower. And something to eat; breakfast food or lunch food, he wouldn't be picky. His guts felt hollow, and he had the beginnings of a whopper of a headache, and "bottom of the birdcage" was a charitable description of the taste in his mouth. But he didn't want to move. Daniel's heartbeat thumped at his shoulder blade. Daniel's breath was warm on his neck.

He closed his eyes, feeling the smooth skin, the long fingers, the narrow fingertips, folded against his palm, against his chest. This was crazy. He just breathed for a while, feeling Daniel against him. Then he eased Daniel's arm back to lie along his side, and rolled, careful not to bounce the mattress, got his feet on the floor, and stood up.

Daniel didn't stir. He lay there, sprawled comfortably, his hair in spikes, his cheeks flushed, his eyelashes a dark brown brush against his cheekbones. Jack shook his head in wonder.

The closet door was still half open, and Jack saw a set of striped pajamas hanging on a hook there, so he grabbed the bottoms and stepped into them. Moving as quietly as he knew how, he headed downstairs.

There was plenty of coffee left in the pot, so he turned the flame on low under it, and while he waited for it to heat, he drank a lot of water, right from the sink tap. Then, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he quietly rummaged in cupboards and in the gleaming ice box for something quick and easy.

He was standing over a skillet full of scrambled eggs, watching cheese melt into them, deciding he was too hungry after all to fry up the bacon he'd found next to the cheese, when he heard, "And he cooks, too."

He turned, wooden spatula in hand, to see Daniel, blue-robed again, leaning in the doorway, grinning, his mug dangling from one finger. Then Daniel's face got serious and he came close. He hesitated only a moment, searching Jack's face, before he brought his mouth to Jack's.

Jack's heart turned over, because it was a "good morning" kiss, a "nice to see you" kiss, a "just reminding myself you're still here" kiss. It was becoming fairly clear to him why guys didn't do this. The sex was stupendous, mind-blowing, addictive, but it was the kissing that was going to get him into big trouble if he didn't watch out.

Daniel pulled back and ducked his head -- the shy look again -- and went for the coffee. The toast popped up from the toaster, which held four slices and had more chrome than Aunt Grace's Cadillac.

"I kinda helped myself," Jack said, looking sidelong at Daniel as he slid the hot toast onto a heavy white stoneware plate he'd found. The everyday stuff had been obvious; right there in the lowest cabinet, next to the stove.

"I can see that," Daniel said. He sounded content. He was pulling jam jars out of the fridge. Jack scraped the eggs into two untidy piles on two plates.

Jack said, "I got the butter already; it's here."

"Read my mind," Daniel said, and Jack could tell he knew it was an echo of Jack's earlier words. "I guess we could sit down in the breakfast room ... or not."

Standing by the stove, Jack had made short work of fully half his portion of eggs, and was smearing grape jam on his toast with the back of a spoon, chewing all the while. Watching Jack, and smiling a little, Daniel piled some eggs into one of the toast slices and folded it into a half sandwich. He ate it reflectively, standing there beside Jack at the counter. Jack was finished with his eggs and toast before Daniel had taken four bites. Jack sighed and found a clean coffee mug and poured another cup, and stepped out on the porch again. His cigarettes and lighter were right there by the swing, where he'd left them. Exhaling a satisfying plume of smoke, he settled into the swing, letting it sway on its long chains.

Daniel didn't emerge to join him, and he was content to sit there and let breakfast settle and catch his breath. Sleep and food had made him feel like had a grip on his senses again. His headache was gone, and the day was beautiful. It was warm, almost hot, already, and the sky was cloudless and dark blue.

One cigarette was gonna be plenty, he decided, given what was waiting for him inside. When he went into the kitchen again, he saw that Daniel had put away the food, but left the dirty plates and the skillet. Jack checked under the sink, found what he needed, and washed up. Then, purposeful, he climbed the stairs again. He heard water running from behind a closed door. Yeah, a shower would be a great idea. He hoped he would be offered the next turn. Then, feeling only a little guilty, he wandered along the hall that squared the stairwell, opening doors and peeking in.

Three big bedrooms, clean and neat as a hotel, and a swept and bare sleeping porch. Past the bathroom again, where the water had stopped, and the last bedroom at the end of the hall was a study. There were acres of tall bookshelves, and an empty birdcage on a stand. There was a chunky square hi-fi and a stack of records, and a deep leather chair with a reading lamp beside it, and several stained and empty coffee mugs on the floor nearby.

The only bare stretch of wall was over the massive roll-top desk, and that wall was covered with maps. Jack stepped closer, frowning a little, because he'd know that coastline anywhere. He could see it with his eyes closed; he could see it in his dreams. He put his hands on the curved back of the desk chair and leaned in. The Korean peninsula. And, the north China coast. The Japan archipelago. Detailed, expensive, top-quality topographic maps. And the place-names printed on them weren't English.

_Huh._

Then he noticed the framed diplomas hanging on the wall next to the maps. Daniel Ballard Jackson was a Ph.D. twice over, with degrees in fields Jack had barely heard of. His eyes widened a little, then, because warm hands were smoothing over his shoulders, and a freshly shaved cheek was brushing his.

"This is the lived-in room," Daniel said, pressing his chest against Jack's back. Jack turned in his arms, surprised and pleased. Daniel was wearing only a towel, tucked around his waist. Jack ran the backs of his knuckles over Daniel's cheekbone.

"I could use a razor," he said, "Doctor Jackson."

"Nosy," Daniel said, turning his head into the touch, then leaning in for a kiss and sliding his arms down around Jack's middle. He frowned at the scrape of Jack's stubble, and leaned back until he was just barely caressing Jack's lips with his own. "Busybody. Snoop."

"Hey, the door was open," Jack protested, and his hands clutched at skin and muscle, because Daniel was licking his mouth, staying well back from the whiskers, teasing Jack unmercifully with his tongue. "Ungh," Jack said, and Daniel backed away.

"Help yourself to a razor," Daniel said, and the evil smile was back. "Since you're so good at that."

A very quick shower and a very careful shave later, Jack was standing in the bedroom door again, wrapped in a towel of his own. Daniel was lying in bed with the sheet pulled up around his waist and a book open before him, but he wasn't reading. He was staring into space. When he saw Jack, he slid the book carelessly over the edge of the mattress. Jack heard it slap the floor. He climbed onto the bed, and Daniel shoved the sheet away, rolled to his back and spread his legs, and Jack kept coming, putting his cheek to Daniel's neck, pressing skin along skin.

"Agh! Towel! _Wet_ towel!"

"Oops," Jack said, and yanked it loose and pushed it aside. Much better, shockingly much better -- warm skin, smoothed by water, rasped clean by the big white towels. He pressed Daniel into the mattress, hitching a little, reaching between them for an adjustment, because they were both hardening suddenly, and he leaned on one elbow so that he could kiss Daniel some more. Smooth lips, edging into smooth skin -- irresistible. He kissed, and kissed, and pushed his hips into Daniel's, and Daniel held him tight.

"I want you to do something for me; if it's something you do," Daniel said presently, between kisses, his eyes closed, sounding almost breathless.

Jack wanted to blurt, _"Anything, name it,"_ but he managed to simply pull away from Daniel's mouth, lick his lips, and look receptive.

They were both breathing hard. Daniel swallowed. "I want, I want you to.... I want you to fuck me."

The simple words sent a splash of lust down Jack's skin where it was pressed against Daniel's -- all the way down to his knees. It made his dick twitch. He lowered his head for a brief nip and suck at Daniel's neck. "I could do that," he said, his lips against skin.

Daniel moaned and tilted his head back, offering more neck. "There's... there's... I put a thing of Vaseline on the floor there.... Oh, god, that's good."

Jack mulled over the jolt Daniel's surprising words had given him, as he kept sucking, and mostly licking, moving around to cover the whole area above Daniel's collarbone with rough kisses. Then he moved lower, taking his time, tonguing at Daniel's nipples for a while, his mind a blur.

_He wants that, he wants that, I can do that. I think I can do that. I want to, but I don't want... I can figure it out. I can go slow and not hurt him. _

God, I didn't know, I didn't know, I didn't know it could be like this...

Jack's heart was pounding. The ideas, the pictures dancing and stumbling through his mind, the way he could already imagine what it was going to feel like, the sheer trust that Daniel's blunt request implied....

When he had made his way down the expanse of chest and stomach and had arrived once again at Daniel's groin, he paused, and it registered just how very comfortable he was already with putting his mouth around Daniel's dick, licking it, kissing it, not even sparing a moment to contemplate how weird that was -- going from thinking he would take that but never offer it, stand still for that but never kneel.

_He wants to fuck; he wants to do that. He wants me to do that._

Jack savored the taste of Daniel's cock like he'd just savored his cigarette. Meeting Daniel in that dark smoky club had been like a passport to a fairy tale world, where dreams could come true in a puff of blue smoke and the wave of a wand.

_Ha,_ he thought, laughing at himself, smiling around the warm, straining flesh in his mouth.

"Oh, god, oh, god, oh, Jack," Daniel was saying, clawing at the sheets again, tensing all his muscles, and trying not to push up into Jack's mouth, trying not to jerk against his teeth or choke him when all his instincts so obviously were telling him to move his hips and thrust.

Jack gripped his hip, giving him something to strain against. He closed his eyes, sinking a little lower around Daniel's cock, feeling it, testing how deep he could push it without triggering a gag reflex. Daniel was moaning, broken, almost anguished sounds, but by now Jack could translate them just fine. He shifted his weight a little, still holding firmly to Daniel's hip, and brought in his free hand to curve around Daniel's balls. He sealed his lips around the shaft and set up a methodical, slow rhythm. Daniel groaned, a lower note, almost a growl, and bent his knee, opening his legs wider, offering.

An idea was developing in Jack's mind, a logical, pleasing extrapolation. An idea of how this shocking thing Daniel wanted might work the best. See, he knew how relaxed and blissful his own body always felt just after he'd come. He had a good idea that "relaxed" and "a hell of a lot of Vaseline" were going to be the operative words here.

So. More pressure, more fondling, a little sucking, a little tongue. And Daniel said, "I'm gonna... I'm...."

Jack pulled off long enough to murmur, "Go ahead, we'll do it all, it's okay..."

And Daniel said, "Oh, God, oh my _god_," and then he fell entirely silent. Jack closed his eyes and kept moving, kept up the rhythm he had found, as the flesh in his mouth got firmer, then even firmer, then impossibly hard. Tongue against the bottom of the head, just there, and he moved his hand, just a little, away from Daniel's balls, going lower, into uncharted territory. He brushed, then pressed, his middle finger against the tight hole.

Daniel was taut, silent, his hips occasionally twitching, and then he let go, his come bursting into Jack's mouth. He moaned, and jolted against Jack's hand.

This time Jack made no attempt to swallow. He pulled back a little, after the first pulses hit his tongue, and then he moved his hand from Daniel's hip to hold him loosely around the head, marveling at how hot it was, to watch this, to see Daniel come. Then he tore his eyes away from Daniel's cock to look at his face, and that was hot too, and equally marvelous.

_Beautiful,_ Jack thought. _How can you be so goddamned beautiful._

Daniel's chest was heaving, his lips were parted, and one hand flopped onto his chest and then his eyes opened, staring blindly toward the ceiling. Jack smiled.

He pushed at Daniel's hip, and Daniel flopped over onto his stomach, all boneless and sweaty. Jack slid along his thighs and lowered himself against Daniel's back, careful of his own weight, and gasped as his erection nudged between Daniel's legs.

"Still want it?" he asked, softly, close to Daniel's ear.

"Yes, yes, please, God..." Daniel said, his words muffled by the pillow. Jack closed his eyes. Then he shifted aside, and looked down, over the edge of the mattress, and there was the Vaseline, just under the head of the bed, on the floor.

_Here goes nothing,_ Jack thought.

Lying on his side, half sprawled across Daniel, he snapped off the tin lid and scooped up a generous glop of the stuff, letting it melt a little between his fingers before smearing it on himself. There was plenty left on his fingers after that was done, and so he glanced at Daniel's ass, now stunningly exposed. Daniel was still boneless, and his hips were cocked up a little, and he'd pushed his knee out, on the side away from Jack, like he was purposely displaying himself. It made Jack's mouth dry.

_It'll be so tight; Jesus._

He reached in, slowly, hesitantly, and smeared the jelly along the crease, and Daniel moaned again and jerked his hips into Jack's hand. So Jack lingered, exploring a little, rubbing in gentle circles, marveling at how the muscle gave under his fingers, wondering how the fuck this was going to work.

Then he realized he was stalling, though Daniel seemed to be enjoying the stalling, and so, yeah, maybe he wasn't stalling at all. Noted. But Daniel had asked for this, Daniel wanted it. Jack trailed his fingers over Daniel's hole once more, eliciting this incredibly sexy twitch of skin and push of hips, and Jack took hold of his dick at the base, and rolled in. He fit himself along the crease, and Christ, with all the lubrication, that felt amazingly good, just like that, just held there, not even inside yet. So he rubbed, up and down a little, just where he was, and he was leaking quite a bit, and yeah, this probably would work just fine. _Jesus_. Daniel was still, but Jack could sense his high-pitched awareness. He was still relaxed, though. Good.

Jack hitched a little closer, leaning on his free hand, and shut his eyes, aiming, feeling his way.

_God, so tight...._

He bit his bottom lip and pushed, then pushed a little harder, trying for slow and easy, and Daniel's body gave, but not much. Jack had a moment of panic -- he could so easily be doing this wrong, he had no fucking clue here, but there was no way he was gonna stop and ask, not at this point. He screwed his eyes shut and bit his lip harder and pushed again. Slow. Slow and easy and _so fucking tight_....

"You're gonna --" Daniel's voice was choked, and the strained quality of it made Jack freeze. "You're gonna have to -- I'm gonna need your fingers first, sorry, sorry...."

"It's okay, no problem," Jack said, through stiff lips, and he eased back. _You total idiot. Of course. What a stupid... Yeah, like that doesn't make perfect sense. Like a person couldn't have figured that out... Jesus Christ._

The berating voice went on and on in the background, but Jack ignored it and leaned back, sliding to his side. He swiped the jelly off his own dick, not wanting to take the time to hunt again for the Vaseline jar, and slid his newly slippery fingers over Daniel's hole again. Daniel was so quiet, so tense. Jack wanted this to be easy, extra easy -- so, one finger, just one, and he sagged with relief when Daniel moaned, and _pushed back._

_Okay, yeah._ Jack blew out his breath. _Christ!_

"You can talk to me, you know. Tell me how you want it. I'm... trainable," Jack said, and his voice was warmer than he wanted it to be, because god, this was good, now -- tight and smooth and hotter than a furnace, Daniel's ass around his finger. In and out, a motion like gentle fucking, and soon he had his whole finger disappearing in there, and it was crazy, how it looked. Just the feel of it on his finger was making him harder than he thought he'd ever been.

Jack lost track of how long this went on, but it was long enough for Daniel to relax again completely, to push against Jack's finger on every stroke, his ass colliding sweetly with Jack's knuckles, and when Daniel turned his head to the side and said, "More," his voice had lost that choked quality and was all honey. Jack smiled.

"Slow is good," Jack said, kind of summarizing the proceedings for himself.

Daniel pushed back harder, and his voice was demanding. "More."

The way Daniel opened for more of his fingers was astonishingly hot. Some more of that, and some more Vaseline for both of them, and however he had fumbled this at first, somehow he'd gotten it now, because this time, when he lined himself up and leaned hard on one fist and tried that gentle slow push again, Daniel gasped and -- _pushed back._

Jack's mouth fell open at the tight hot slide of it. He went all the way in, and in, and he was pressing his tender stomach against Daniel's ass, crushing his hair, and he could feel their balls brushing.

"All right, baby?" he said, and he was breathless, so high.

"Oh, god, yes," Daniel said, and because Jack was holding himself up, carefully, balancing a lot of his weight on his hands, Daniel had room to move, and he slid up a little, a slippery glorious tug along Jack's shaft, and then pushed back again.

Jack bit down hard, and he knew he was going to have to resort to baseball rosters, to his cockpit checklist, to something, because he wanted to come right then, just explode right that second into that tight slippery clutching heat.

"Jesus."

"Jack...."

"Oh my god."

_"Jack..."_

It was a rocking, insistent motion, a full-body vibration, just like the boom of the bass drum back at the club, just like the driving line of the twelve-bar blues. They rocked together for as long as Jack could hold on, and then he bit his lip and pressed his forehead to Daniel's back, no voice left for any sort of warning, and he came, and came and came.

The room was gone, his mind was gone, all that was left was the shivery sweet explosion, the feeling of warmth, the intense embrace of Daniel all around him, Daniel with him, Daniel knowing him, holding him, taking him in, becoming his....

Daniel let him lean there a minute, long enough to let him just barely get his breath and let the red haze clear from his eyes. Then Daniel shifted them to the side, clutching Jack's hip with one hand to keep him inside, and grabbing insistently at Jack's other hand and guiding it hastily to his own cock.

Jack got a clue. He tried to focus. He closed his hand as best he could around the wet shaft, concentrating on the head, and in a few strokes, Daniel groaned and knocked his head back against Jack's shoulder and his hand tightened on Jack's hip and he shot, again, hard, long, through Jack's fingers. Jack's hand fell away and they both lay there, limp, panting.

Jack had no idea how much time went by. He blinked. His sweat was cooling. He smelled like sex and skin and musk and Daniel. He licked his lips.

"Thank you. My god, thank you," Daniel said, as if from a long way away.

Jack was still more than half asleep, half zapped into unconsciousness, really, by the strength of his climax. It came to him as he drifted that he'd said something he shouldn't have, that he'd broken one of the rules, a pretty important one, but he couldn't hold the thought. He drifted again, drifted into a dream, sated, delighted, safe....

Something was tickling him. He opened his eyes. Something was tickling his ribs.

Well, wasn't this romantic. How had this happened? He was lying on his side, his head on Daniel's shoulder, the length of his front pressed against the length of Daniel's side, and Daniel was... well, petting him was the only word for it. The smooth flutter of Daniel's fingers was so gentle and light that when they crossed his ribs, it tickled.

He lifted his head. "Tickles," he managed to say, and his head fell to Daniel's shoulder again. His tongue was thick.

"Oh. Sorry." Daniel stopped tickling him and hitched him closer.

Cuddling. This was definitely cuddling. Jack closed his eyes and enjoyed it for a minute. He knew, he knew he'd crossed a line. Not with the fucking. The fucking was great; the fucking was ... allowed. He'd crossed some kind of line. He just had to remember what he'd done.

Got to watch those lines. Didn't he?

He sighed and eased back and raised himself on an elbow. Daniel's arm went with him; it was still under his neck. He ran his hand along the length of it, briefly cupped the swell of deltoid, and let his hand trail to nestle a nipple in his palm. Daniel closed his eyes.

Jack said the first thing that came into his head. "So, you speak Chinese, and Korean, too."

Daniel's eyes flew open, and he came fully awake instantly. A moment before, he'd looked ... distant. A little sad. Now he looked focused and very intense. "How... oh... You saw the maps in the study." He looked out over his messy room and hitched a little higher in the bed. He stuffed a pillow under his head. Jack folded his arms and eased back. It felt weird to not be touching any part of Daniel's skin. "I really should have taken those down. They were for a project that-- I really should take them down. I never look at them any more."

"A project." He watched Daniel's profile. He thought back to standing there, leaning on the desk in the study of Daniel Jackson, Ph.D., Linguistics. History. He thought back, and knew he'd developed a bunch of suspicions, and if his suspicions were correct, this offhand comment, this question, was really dirty pool. It was so not fair of him to put Daniel on the spot like this, but Jack realized he wanted the information. He was hungry for the information. He was hungry for Daniel. Whatever he could get of Daniel. He kept his face neutral.

Daniel looked back at him for a while, locking their gazes. Jack could see the wheels turning behind those blue, blue eyes. "Did you go to Korea?" Daniel asked, in exactly the same neutral tone that Jack had used.

"Recon only. Carriers." Jack waited. Daniel pondered that, his head a little to one side. Then he turned to lie on his back again, and folded his hands over his stomach, as if settling in.

"Tell me about the Cougars. Tell me about flying. Tell me about landing on a carrier at night, at sea. Tell me if you're here to train the reserves, and if you'll be getting a crack at the F-11's."

Jack opened his mouth to answer, because Daniel had put the coin in the slot. Wow. The flying thing; that was easy to talk about and he loved it; the gossip and the planning and the pending changeover to the new hot Grumman, the new Tiger -- all that was always buzzing at the back of his mind, always there, always part of him, like pleasant music, playing in his head. But then he managed to shut his mouth again and he looked at Daniel, hard.

Not that the nicknames of the Navy fighters were a secret or anything, but it had been Jack's experience that the average civilian barely knew the difference between a fighter and a bomber, let alone the plane numbers or the nickname designations that Jack's buddies knew as well as they knew the names of their wives and mothers.

So he thought a minute, and what he finally said was not really an answer to Daniel's questions at all. "Intelligence?"

And Daniel got this look that said, "busted," and he looked at Jack and looked away. Then he smiled very sweetly and said, "We don't have to talk about flying if you don't want to."

Jack grinned at him. "You know I'll talk about flying all weekend if you encourage me.... Let's get something else to eat and maybe I can have another smoke and you can listen to me ramble on. If you really want to."

"If I want to..." Daniel mocked, but then those expressive eyes got soft again, and he leaned in, and Jack got ready to kiss him again, but Daniel stopped within kissing distance, and brought up his hand. He traced Jack's cheekbone, and his eyebrow, and caressed the line of his jaw with careful, feathery touches. Jack closed his eyes.

He was having a flashback, a recent one, a good one... so tight. So hot. He wanted to do it again. He wanted to ask how it was. He wanted to ask if it had been good for Daniel, if he'd made it good. _Daniel. Baby._

... Oops.

After while the fingers went away, and Jack opened his eyes to see Daniel rolling to sit up. "Come on," Daniel said, and he was facing away. He got up, and Jack pulled on the pajama bottoms again, and followed him back down to the kitchen.

They made a couple of sandwiches out of cold roast beef, with mustard, and drank what seemed like gallons of water, and Jack drank one orphaned bottle of Miller High Life that Daniel found, with a puzzled look, in the back of the fridge, and they went and sat on the porch swing again. Jack smoked a couple of cigarettes, and he let Daniel's thoughtful, well-informed questions goad him into more of a ramble than he'd ever attempted out loud about why flying, why jets, why the military, all the whys.

After a while, Jack ran out of words. It was settling into evening again; the heat was pressing through the wide brick spaces of the porch. The trailing, thick willow branches sighed in the sticky breeze.

Jack had moved to the wide railing, and he was sitting with his hands linked around a knee. Daniel was sprawled in the big swing, his head leaning against the chain. It didn't look comfortable, but Daniel was relaxed, as if it were. Jack said, apropos of nothing, "I haven't put on clothes for ... hours."

Daniel laughed; a heartfelt, spontaneous sound that made Jack's chest contract. Daniel sat up and heaved himself out of the swing and came close. He ran his hands over Jack's chest. "It's odd, isn't it?" Then he dropped his hands, and Jack figured it was because they were outside, even as private as the porch was. Daniel regarded him. "You can stay over again tonight, you know. If you want to."

"Kinda figured," Jack said. "Unless I'm wearing out my welcome."

Daniel shook his head and looked down, and he turned and went back in the house. It seemed an abrupt exit. Jack pulled the last Camel from his pack and lit it.

"Hey," he said. Daniel had left the kitchen door open; Jack figured he could hear him through the screen. "I'm out of cigarettes, and we could actually -- radical thought -- get dressed, and we could go somewhere and have dinner. My treat." He looked toward the door, hopeful, and Daniel was standing just behind the screen, hands pushed deep into the pockets of his robe. His face brightened.

"All right. I'm about out of stuff to eat, so that's a very good idea, actually."

Jack nodded, and turned back to the railing to finish smoking. The yard was silent. The birds were gone. In the distance, he heard the afternoon hum of cicadas start up, like the rough buzz of a badly played cello.

Ferretti, back in Chicago, years ago now, had taken Jack out for a celebratory dinner the night of the day they'd both enlisted, and Ferretti had gotten sucked into a conversation about patriotism and Korea and Communism and the future of the world, with the waitress at the restaurant. Jack had rolled his eyes and finished his dinner and accepted his third-wheel status and left Ferretti there. Ferretti had barely acknowledged his goodbye. When they met up again the following Monday, to go get their official physicals and their eye exams and start the next round of the process that would very shortly send them off to pilot training, Jack learned that Ferretti had spent the entire weekend with the waitress, and had, in fact, concluded their festivities with a wedding.

Wartime sometimes did that to people, Jack knew. It wasn't the first story like that that he'd heard, among his own friends, and among uncles and cousins who had been to Germany or to the Pacific. It happened like that. In wartime.

He sighed, and flicked the dead cigarette butt down into the mulch under the lilac bushes that lined Daniel's porch. Perhaps his mother had planted them.

They showered again, separately, and Jack wore some of Daniel's clothes out to dinner, which didn't feel nearly as stupid as it should have. They got Jack some more cigarettes, and they bought a loaf of bread and a gallon of milk.

They talked about going out to hear some more blues, but instead they drove back to Daniel's house, although Jack made Daniel detour and take the long way, to drive past the campus where Daniel taught, and Daniel insisted that it would be all right if Jack smoked in the Pontiac. So he did. Hanging his arm out into the warm night air the whole time.

When they got back, they stumbled up the stairs, clutching and kissing and leaving a trail of clothes, and Daniel lay on his back this time, pillows under his hips, his legs pulled so tightly around Jack's waist, heels digging into Jack's kidneys, and he looked into Jack's eyes the whole time and held on to his shoulders, and never said a word.

In the night, Jack woke once to find himself alone in the bed, and then he woke a second time to find Daniel back beside him, curled against him, sleeping face to face.

But something had changed for him in the night, Jack knew, when morning came. Because he was alone in the bed again, and he'd slept very late and very deeply, much later than he'd meant to.

His clothes were hanging neatly from a hanger on the inside of the closet door. His socks had been draped over his shoes, along with his watch. He lay in the sex-soaked bed and listened, but there was no sound in the house at all. He rubbed his face, and got up, and made his way to the shower.

Dressed again, except for his jacket, his clothes only a little rumpled, a little worse for wear, he finally found Daniel out on the back porch. Blue robe, coffee mug, just like before, just like he'd gotten used to. Except not.

Daniel stood up and set his mug on the railing. He fumbled with his hands a little. Then he put them in his pockets.

"I've called you a cab to get you back to Millington."

Jack frowned, and started to say something. Daniel jumped in. "I can pay for it; it's nothing. It's the least I can do. Believe me."

Jack tried to open his mouth again, because there were things he should say -- thanks, arguments, whatever, but he hadn't formed a word when Daniel preempted him again.

"I know. I know. It's better this way, if I don't drop you off there, I get it." Daniel turned his head away and looked out over the yard.

_That wasn't what I was going to say,_ Jack thought. Then Daniel, not looking at him, stepped to him and gently took him by the shoulders and kissed him, and then he turned and disappeared through the screen door, into the kitchen.

Jack didn't know what else to do, so he stood there and smoked a cigarette and put the lighter into his slacks pocket this time, instead of leaving it on the railing. He put the pack into his shirt pocket.

He went into the house, and followed the sound of water upstairs. He sat on the camelback sofa in the bedroom and closed his eyes. The room definitely smelled of lavender. And sex. When he heard Daniel's step, he stood up. He almost went to parade rest, but he was able to stop himself in time. He felt very nervous; too nervous.

Daniel was barefoot, but dressed -- a worn old Oxford shirt, obviously a favorite, and soft chinos, so faded they were almost white.

He stayed in the bedroom doorway, his hands in his pockets, and just waited, so Jack went slowly around the sofa and past the bed and up to him. Daniel stiffened and stepped back a little, and Jack's half-formed idea of pulling him close faded before his arms could move.

"I called the cab company while you were still asleep," Daniel said. "It's all covered. They'll be here in just a few minutes. You can... you can smoke out on the front porch, you know. You can wait there."

They stared at each other. Jack felt that anything he could say would be so inadequate to what he wanted to say that he couldn't even begin to form words. He frowned a little, watching Daniel's face. He knew it so well, after these hours, these days -- he had watched the expressions chase themselves, had seen ecstasy and laughter and annoyance and sleep on that face.... Daniel's face was blank and neutral now.

But his eyebrows creased, just a little, as he held Jack's gaze. Then Daniel leaned in, hands still in his pockets, and they kissed. It still felt tender. It felt sweet. Daniel pulled back first.

"Go on," he said. "I'm going to --" He jerked his head toward the study at the end of the hall. "I'll just..."

And he turned his back and left Jack there in the hall. Jack watched him walk away. He went into the room, over to the big desk, and Jack could see his arm, his hand. He picked up a folded pair of glasses, held them still, in midair.

Jack walked down the front stairs. His coat was still hanging on the chair in the dining room. The room was warm and smelled faintly of oranges. Upstairs, he heard music start, from the hi-fi, in the study. Jazz, of course. Swing, with a strong blues beat.

Jack paced slowly across the dining room, crossed the carpet in the dark, formal parlor, and opened the heavy front door. The porch was close and cool; it faced north. There was very little traffic, because it was Sunday. People were sleeping, or already in church. A cigarette would taste good, and he probably had time for one, before the cab driver came. He felt in his pocket, for his new pack and for his lighter.


	3. Chapter 3

Things were quiet at the air station when the big yellow cab pulled up with Jack inside. It was dusty, and hot, and nothing was taking off or landing because it was Sunday afternoon.

Jack got waved through the gate by a sleepy guard and scrawled his name on the clipboard. He had the cab drop him off at the turnaround in front of the officers' quarters.

It was quiet inside, too, except for the howl of the window air conditioner. Kawalsky and Ferretti were curled up on bunks at opposite ends of the room, radios pressed to their ears. Boyd and Burns were playing gin rummy for cigarettes. Boyd was apparently winning, evidenced by the untidy pyramid in front of him. Boyd glanced up when Jack came in, and his eyebrows went up, too. Jack wandered over and sorted through the cigarettes piled in front of Boyd until he found a Camel. Most of them were Kools. Burns always did have strange tastes. Come to think of it, maybe that was a judgment Jack shouldn't make. He lit the Camel with his own Zippo and put the lighter on the table.

"What's with that?" he said, pointing, two fingered around his cigarette, to Ferretti and Kawalsky. The harsh fluorescent light in the room seemed too bright, after two days and two nights of sunlight filtered through willow branches, and the eternal dusk of Daniel's bedroom.

Boyd said, his eyes on his cards, "One's got the Cubs game, one's got the Yankees game. No way to compromise on that, you know."

"Ah," Jack said, and walked to the far end of the narrow room, and looked out the dirty window at the empty No. 3 runway. The little air conditioner groaned and strained, assaulting his ears, but the direct blast of cold air felt nice on his face. There was a slightly sore place right under his jaw, there on the left, he realized, where Daniel had nipped him a little too hard last night. He smiled, then the smile faded.

_"Go on.... You can smoke on the front porch.... Wait there...."_

It had to be that way, but Jack didn't have to like it. And, what do you know. He didn't.

"Hey Charlie! Look who's back! You owe me two bucks!"

"I do not, ya stinkin' ferret."

"Do so. The bet was that Romeo here wouldn't be back till tonight, and it's tonight, so pay up."

"Do not! The bet was that he wouldn't be back until his leave was up, and his leave is not up for another.... 46 minutes. You owe ME two bucks."

"Now -- wait! Shush!" The argument was suspended, because the Cubs were making some kind of spectacular play. Jack could hear the tinny roar of the crowd, and the impassioned pleas of the announcer, but he wasn't clear on the details. He wandered over, ducking his head, and plopped down next to Ferretti. He'd take a Cubs game over the Yankees or gin rummy any day.

Ferretti listened intently until the runners were safe. Then he smirked at Jack. "Well, I was right about one thing, anyway. O'Neill got lucky, the bastard. So, spill it. You gonna kiss and tell this time?"

"Never. Just let me say --" and Jack raised his voice, for Kawalsky's benefit -- "that Audra's a hell of a lot nicer person when you're not pinching her on the ass!"

The catcalls and the hoots didn't die down until the Yankees made a double play, and Kawalsky's attention was diverted.

The lie felt automatic, too easy. So Jack was probably imagining Boyd's eyes boring into his back. He didn't look around to see. He craned to put his cigarette butt in the battered aluminum ash tray at the foot of Ferretti's bunk, then snagged a pillow from the bunk above and stuffed it under his chin. It was the fourth inning, and the Cubs were losing. But he was used to that.

~~~~

Jack paced slowly away from his CO's office, rereading the orders. It was really too much. It was nothing that he'd expected, and he didn't know whether to be excited, or dismayed, or what exactly. Since the war had ended in Korea, he'd felt relieved that the Cold War had gone cold again, and yet he had a strong feeling he wouldn't be very good at civilian life now, and, so, when group by group, command by command, the guys he'd known were released to return to their wives and their hometowns, he was always relieved that the Navy found something else that he was needed to do. Plus, fighter jets.

Some guys went with relief, some with scowls, but so many of them were going, year by year. But not him.

And now, another change. Another assignment. And a goddamned fucking amazing one.

He stepped into the room that had been home for the last couple of months, and he glanced around. Boyd was there, his feet in a chair, staring into space.

"Is it true?" Boyd said.

Jack bit off a flippant answer. "Yeah," he said.

"By order of Voris himself?"

"Nah, but close enough." Jack handed over the paperwork so that Boyd could see for himself. Boyd swung his feet down and read it over. Lt. Jonathan O'Neill, blah blah blah, report for duty.... in three days. To Pensacola, Florida. For reassignment with what everyone in America already knew as the Blue Angels.

"Son of a bitch," Boyd said, and he stood up and reached for Jack's hand and pumped it. "Son of a bitch."

~~~~

The ceiling fan went round and round and Jack watched it. He lit another cigarette. He glanced around the little flyspecked mom-and-pop store, and then looked back down at the phone book open on the counter in front of him. The black and white letters that said JACKSON Daniel B. were still right there, followed by the street address and the phone number and the smudge his sweaty finger had left next to them. That hadn't changed. Whether Jack had the nerve to step out to the pay phone and put in a dime and dial those numbers was still up in the air.

He slapped the book shut and stepped outside. Why was he making this so hard? Call the guy. He might say yes, he might say no. Either answer, Jack could accept. Right?

There was the pay phone. There was the change, jingling in his pocket. It was six o'clock on a Tuesday evening -- probably the right time to catch someone at home if they had a university job and maybe only taught a class or two in the summer and even if they were gone part of the day they might be home at six, having a bite to eat, in a tall cool kitchen with black and white tiles on the floor, perhaps read for a while, before maybe going out to hear the blues.

He was making this way too hard.

He tossed the cigarette to the concrete at his feet and stalked over to the phone. He shoved a dime in the slot and dialed the number. It rang. He waited. His hand was slippery and cold on the receiver.

"Hello -- Daniel Jackson."

_My god._

There was a lump in his throat. He forced the words past it. "Hi, it's Jack O'Neill, from the other night. From the blues club."

There was a long pause.

"If you remember," Jack added, not wanting to feel quite this desperate. He could hang up at any time. This was probably nothing.

"Of course; I remember," Daniel said, stepping on Jack's words, and Jack wanted to laugh in relief at the warmth in Daniel's voice.

"Hello," Daniel said. "Again." And he sounded wary now.

"I'm, uh, I'm shipping out tomorrow, and I thought...." Jesus, he should have planned what he was going to say. This was really stupid. "I thought it would be ... nice to ... get together again. If you wanted to."

"You're shipping out?"

"Yeah, our training here is over now, we've apparently done all the damage we can do, and they're breaking up the band, sending me to Florida, sending all the guys to different places.... Some of them are going home. Getting discharged."

It was easy to speak into the warm receptive silence he could so easily imagine, returning in his memory to that afternoon on the porch when Daniel had asked him question after question about flying, and he had rambled, eager to talk after they'd broken the ice, gotten so close. Willing to talk when Daniel had made it so easy, when Daniel had seemed so eager to listen. Like he really cared. Like he really wanted to know.

"Florida," Daniel said, sounding thoughtful.

"Pensacola, there on the Gulf side. Gulf coast."

"That's not so fa.... Um, so you called to see if..."

"If you... if we could...."

"Hey, Grace."

"Babbling, yeah, I know."

They fell silent, and Jack smiled, because he could _see_ Daniel's face through the phone line, could see his teasing smile, and right then he knew, he _knew_ down to his bones, that this was different, that this could be different, that he wasn't imagining it. He stood up a little straighter and twined the phone cord around his finger.

"So," Jack said, with a new sense of purpose, a new confidence. "I'd like to see you again before I leave, and I thought I'd call and see if you wanted to get together tonight."

More silence. But Jack remembered -- he remembered how Daniel would think, like he was jack-hammering reality with his mind, how he would go a thousand miles away in his head, but how, even when he was doing that, he was still. right. there. Under Jack's hands. Under Jack's skin, now.

So he waited, comfortable.

"I'd like that," Daniel said.

"Great! I can get one of the guys to drop me at that same barbecue restaurant, Cecil's... about eight? That all right?"

"You mean tonight."

"Well, yeah.... If it's too short notice..."

"No, no. I'll... I'll see you there."

"Okay, then. See you there."

Jack hung up the phone. He licked his lips and smoothed his sweaty hands on the fronts of his khaki slacks. It felt just like making a date, a date with a girl. He felt like he had made a date.

~~~~

It was Boyd who had the car, Boyd who'd pulled the strings, Boyd who was willing to drop him at Cecil's.

"You're sure you don't want any company," he said, as Jack was thanking him, handing him an unbroken pack of Camels as he leaned on the driver's door, in civvies, in the restaurant parking lot.

"I'm sure."

And Boyd had glared at him, and taken the cigarettes, and driven off, but Jack could see through the glare. He was grateful. Boyd was the only one who'd ever suspected anything, at least so far, but he had never given Jack any shit. You had to be grateful for that. Jack hadn't said a word, but Boyd had figured it out, all by himself.

Jack watched him drive off, and squared his shoulders and went in. He got a booth, and ordered a beer and settled in to wait.

At eight-fifteen, Daniel trailed the waitress to his booth, and sat down and folded his hands and smiled. Jack tamped out his cigarette and smiled back. He wanted to reach up to shake Daniel's hand, but he stopped himself.

"Hi," Daniel said.

"Hi," Jack said, and right away, he extended his foot and touched Daniel's foot. He watched carefully, and Daniel felt it, because his smile brightened. Jack was smiling like an idiot and he didn't bother to try to hold it back.

"I was... I was surprised when you called," Daniel said.

"Well, maybe I shouldn't have. But it's good to see you."

"Why shouldn't you have?" It was like Daniel was pouncing on the first part of the statement, though he was simultaneously looking pleased at the second part.

Jack frowned, and a whole lot of words backed up behind his lips. He hesitated. He didn't think he wanted to try to explain what Daniel had to already know, just like Jack knew. It was the rules, the rules of the game when it was men. But after all, Daniel was a questioner. Daniel had tended to do everything he did with a running commentary and with questions. Even in bed. That memory made Jack lose his train of thought for a second. He was sideswiped by a vivid sense of touch, of remembering what it felt like to have all that skin up against his, to put his mouth on Daniel's mouth, to come against his stomach. A shiver ran up his spine and he felt for Daniel's foot again. Somehow an inch of two of space had opened between their shoes.

Daniel was still waiting for his answer, looking a little worried, now.

_You can smoke on the porch...._

"Well, you know," Jack said, and he looked down and fiddled with his silverware. "Aren't ... things ... like this usually one night stands?"

Daniel looked thoughtful.

"Yes, usually they are." And Daniel looked away, out at the bustling restaurant, and Jack took the opportunity to study his profile. He was wearing his glasses tonight. They were round, gold, and they made him look very serious and very smart. He had a fresh shave, Jack noted with another tingle, and he'd gotten a haircut in the weeks since Jack had seen him. Daniel's shirt and slacks were simple, neutral, but well cut, and their obvious quality made Jack feel a little unkempt even though he knew he looked okay. He hadn't wanted to come in uniform this time, and nothing else really seemed to fit right on him after all these years.

Daniel looked at him again, meeting his eyes. As always, Jack could almost hear him thinking.

"You said you're leaving for Florida tomorrow. What will you be doing there?"

They were interrupted by the waitress, who handed them menus and took their dinner orders on the spot. Neither of them needed any time to decide on their food. Jack wondered if, like him, Daniel was thinking ahead already, past dinner to the part where the clothes would come off. He certainly hoped so.

When the waitress left, Jack started fiddling with his silverware again.

"They're not sending you out on a carrier again, are they?"

"No, no, not from Pensacola. They... Actually I..." It would sound so pretentious. He could hardly say it. It would sound like a lie. It would sound like boasting.

"If it's classified, I und--"

"No, it's not classified." Jack studied his placemat. Cartoon characters advertising Cecil's own barbecue seasoning grinned and flirted up at him. "Maybe you've heard of the Navy's demonstration team? They fly the new fighters around to air shows?"

Daniel was silent, so Jack looked up.

Daniel looked gratifyingly astonished and happy. He dropped his voice in that way that meant he was consciously not barking out the question. "They're assigning you to the Blue Angels?"

Jack nodded slightly, a small smile touching his lips. It was really, really fun to see Daniel so happy for him.

Daniel said, "Huh. Congratulations."

"Thank you," Jack said. Really hard to hold back the grin. But he managed.

The waitress came, laden with their pork and their potato salad and their cole slaw, and they stopped talking to eat.

Jack found that his nervousness was gone and that he was extremely hungry. A couple of times when he glanced up, he saw Daniel looking at him, and he kept thinking about Daniel's soft voice, about the sounds he made in bed, about the way his hand felt when it closed around Jack's dick, about how it felt to sink inside him, and he concluded he was going to be fighting a losing battle against his boner when it was time to go, he and wondered if he could surreptitiously pull his shirttails out to hide it.

He finished eating before Daniel, and leaned back and lit a cigarette.

"I'm glad you were home when I called," he said, without thinking too much.

Daniel smiled, still chewing. Then he put his fork and knife across his empty plate and pushed it to one side.

"Did you have any specific plans for tonight?" Daniel asked, and he had this disingenuous, almost flirtatious tilt to his head.

"Yes, actually, I did," Jack said.

"You want to tell me what they are?" Daniel said, and now he was definitely flirting.

"I can show you instead."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, but we have to go back to your place for me to do that." Jack toyed with his lighter.

"I think that can be arranged," Daniel said. He drank some water, and he then he tossed out question after question about the Blue Angels until the waitress brought the check.

Their hands collided, reaching for the little greasy slip of paper, and their eyes met. Jack's hand had been just slightly quicker, and so he waited, with his hand flattened against the check as it lay on the shiny surface of the table. Daniel pulled back, still holding Jack's gaze. The gaze turned positively smoldering. Once again Jack was overwhelmed with relief. He hadn't been wrong to call. He hadn't been wrong.

Jack turned the check over so that they could both see the prices, and he pulled out his wallet at the same time that Daniel pulled out some bills in a clip, and their eyes met again as they both put cash on the table. The waitress would probably get a generous tip. But the details of that calculation were the last thing Jack wanted to worry about.

They got up to go. Daniel's neatly pressed summer slacks were just tight enough to show off the curve of his ass. There was no wallet in his back pocket to spoil the line, and Jack amused himself with wondering if Daniel had done that on purpose, or if he never carried a wallet, only a money clip. Watching Daniel's butt in a furtive sort of way kept him pleasantly occupied until he was back in the front seat of the black Pontiac.

"You need anything on the way? Cigarettes?"

"No, I'm fine, I think." Jack patted his pockets. Daniel's glance was, once again, smoldering. "If you've got plenty of coffee," Jack dared, on the strength of all the teasing, all the glances, all the memories. He wanted to stay the night, sleep in the same bed with this man, wake up with him. He wanted that. Intensely. He hoped Daniel wanted it too.

"Oh, I always have coffee," Daniel said, his eyes on the street now. His voice was still teasing.

It was dark again when they got to Daniel's house. He parked the car in the spot along the alley, and led Jack through the yard and up the path. There was a chaise longue on the grass near one of the magnolias. That was the only change, as far as Jack could see. His body was thrumming with anticipation, his palms itching to touch Daniel's skin.

Daniel was ahead of him all the way, never hesitating, never hurrying. He pushed through the back door and let Jack close it. He tossed his glasses on the kitchen counter as he passed, and went on up the back stairs, never stopping until he got to the foot of his bed, where he turned, eyes tightly closed, and grabbed Jack by the lapels. Jack braced himself for the kiss, his hands already finding the sweet spot where Daniel's lower back curved into his buttocks, but his breath caught. Daniel had paused with his face two inches from Jack's. He inhaled sharply and opened his eyes, and his hands tightened on Jack's shirt. He looked at Jack for a long moment, frowning just a little, and then instead of the incendiary, slick assault Jack had been ready for, he tilted his head and kissed Jack gently, slowly. Three or four soft, tender kisses, and then Jack couldn't take it.

He growled and brought his hands up to hold Daniel's head still, and he sealed his mouth to Daniel's and opened, making Daniel open, pushing in with his tongue. More demanding that he meant to be, really, but it worked out fine.

The next moments were a blur of shimmering, encroaching arousal, a simmering silent rush, and the next thing Jack knew they were sprawled across the unmade bed, and clothes were coming off. Quickly.

Jack wanted everything. Everything, and immediately. Daniel seemed to feel the same way, because it was a disorganized collision of mouths and hands and skin. Their legs twined, and Jack couldn't get close enough, couldn't feel enough, fast enough.

Then they both paused, stilling enough to agree on another long, intense kiss -- and they synched up enough to take turns inside the kiss. And when Daniel pulled away, giving Jack his mouth back, the feeling of Daniel's tongue slowly leaving his made Jack very sure what it was that was at the top of his "craving it most" list.

He pressed at Daniel, gently, trying to get him to turn and to lie on his back, but Daniel wouldn't go. Daniel pressed against him, kissing his neck, stroking his back, moving his hips so that the satiny brush of his erection against Jack's was maddening. More kissing, sloppy and fast.

Finally Jack had to speak up. "I want to suck you. Let me suck you, Daniel, I want to so bad." Part of this was said against Daniel's mouth, part of it against his neck.

Daniel gasped and quieted, all at once, and subsided onto his back, and so Jack had the sweet victorious pleasure of kissing down his body until he could press his cheek against Daniel's shaft. It was the smell of him as much as anything else that Jack had been craving since they had fallen into bed -- the intense scent of the man that clung to his pubic hair and to all that hidden skin. Jack nosed into it, laying kisses around the base of Daniel's dick, pressing them to Daniel's already-tight balls. He closed his eyes and slowly, slowly, slid Daniel's dick into his mouth, and Daniel whimpered.

Pressing close, wrapping himself partly around Daniel's leg, leaning on an elbow, Jack reveled in this again -- the feel of the hot satin in his mouth, the plush swell of the head, the delicate tight skin of the shaft with its big pulsing vein, the taste of the first few clear drops. He squeezed his eyes closed and took his time.

Daniel's restless hands stayed on him, squeezing his shoulders, caressing his hair, cupping the back of his neck. Jack remembered how Daniel had lain flat the first time they did this, flat and tense and hanging on to the sheets. Now, instead, he seemed to continually want to touch Jack, to never lose contact, and Jack so understood the impulse.

He pulled his mouth from Daniel's dick to kiss and taste the entire area again -- the wiry hair, the crease where his legs met his groin, his balls. Daniel moaned and spread his legs. Jack imagined how good it would feel for Daniel if he could get a finger or two inside him while he was sucking him off, but there was no way he was going to stop this to check under the bed for the Vaseline, or, god forbid, get up and go all the way into the bathroom to get it. So, more from a practical opportunism than anything else, he kept one hand rhythmically moving in the wet smear on the head of Daniel's cock while he pushed one of Daniel's thighs out of the way so that he could get some spit spread around the tight opening, before trying to use his fingers.

Daniel's reaction when Jack's tongue pressed at his hole was immediate, surprised and surprising. A shocked thrill ran through him, and he said, "Oh," in this tone of wonder, and Jack smiled and kept licking, and kept nudging at his thighs until he'd manhandled Daniel to a position that didn't strain his neck.

So Daniel liked that. So that meant Jack liked it, too. He licked and kissed until his tongue felt strained and tired, and Daniel was so hard and so wet to his touch when Jack finally pulled his mouth back.

Jack had some thought of changing it up again, going down on Daniel again and pressing in with his fingers, like he'd thought of in the first place, but he paused just a little too long, because Daniel sat up and heaved himself around, catching Jack's ribs with his elbow in the process.

"Sorry, sorry," Daniel said, hastily, but not sounding sorry at all, and he landed with his face at Jack's groin, and he hugged Jack's hips closer and took him in his mouth.

"Argh," Jack said. "God."

Things got very tangled and close and spit-covered after that. They found good places, warm comfortable places, for their arms to fit, over and under, and the rush of wet and sucking and sensation was overwhelming. It was too much; it was distracting and obliterating and crazy. When it ended, in a rush and a clench and series of choked off moans, Jack still couldn't swallow as skillfully as Daniel, but it didn't seem to matter.

Panting, dazed, Jack shifted his head a little to get it out of the puddle of Daniel's come, and ended up using Daniel's thigh for a pillow. There was quiet, the only sound their ragged unmatched breathing.

Daniel murmured, "It makes sense why they call that sixty-nine, when you think about it. It's the shape of the numbers, if you put them together. One over the other." He seemed to be thinking out loud as much as talking to Jack.

Jack chuckled. He petted along Daniel's side, squeezed a little. And then he dozed off.

He woke sometime later to find Daniel languidly writhing back against him, quiet, half asleep, but seemingly enjoying the gentle grind of pushing his ass against Jack's half-hard dick. Jack woke up completely, in a hurry. He pressed a kiss to Daniel's nape and groped down, finding Daniel to be hard. Daniel was holding himself as he pushed against Jack. He gently insinuated his own hand into the upstroke Daniel was in the middle of, easing Daniel's hand out of the way. Daniel groaned, and his hand came back immediately to rest over Jack's.

Jack braced his other hand at Daniel's shoulder and pushed, getting his hardness between the cheeks of Daniel's ass.

"Oh, yeah," Daniel drawled.

"Where's that Vaseline," Jack asked. He was a little breathless.

"Oh, crap," Daniel said, and he squeezed Jack's hand, and then he let go. "Dammit." He rolled out of bed. Jack lay there and waited, his hand idling along his own erection. The bed smelled so good -- sweat and warmth and the spicy scent of Daniel.

In just a minute, Daniel was back, cracking the lid as he slid back onto the mattress. He reached for Jack and stroked the jelly onto him, and Jack shifted onto his back, watching Daniel's face, wanting to see. He squeezed Daniel's knee, slipped a hand up along his thigh. Daniel was smiling at him, his glance dancing over Jack's chest, his legs, his groin. His hand was steady and firm. Pleasure bloomed in Jack's groin, cascaded along his skin, down his legs.

_So good; god, you're so good...._

Jack reached down with shaking fingers and transferred some of the melting jelly from Daniel's hand and from his dick to his own fingers, and then he scrunched around until he could reach between Daniel's legs, where his sack was bunched tightly against his groin as he knelt beside him, knees spread, leaning over Jack.

_There,_ Jack thought, and turned his hand, pressed up with two fingers. Daniel gasped. _Oh yeah._

Daniel's hands stuttered on his dick. Jack's eyes tried to close, tried to roll back in his head, but it was way better to watch Daniel's face, and at the same time, to feel this, the smooth tight clench around his fingers, Daniel's hands on his dick, on his balls, Daniel's beautiful blind expression.

_So tight. So hot._

After a while, Daniel let go of him and moved, gently pulling free of Jack's fingers. He turned and swung a knee over Jack's middle, straddling him.

"Always with the new ideas," Jack said, needing to joke so that he didn't blurt out something yearning and needy.

Daniel just smiled, his face a mask of pleasure, his eyes closed, and he reached behind himself and settled and snuggled and lined them up. Jack bit his bottom lip and squeezed Daniel's thighs, smearing Vaseline in the wiry hair, but he didn't really notice, and apparently Daniel didn't notice either.

Daniel did it all, managed it all -- working Jack carefully into the tightness, balancing against gravity and bracing his knees against Jack's ribs. Jack couldn't help gasping. Repeatedly.

His turn to lie there and tense and grab and squeeze against muscle, and to try not to groan too loudly. Daniel was driving, and Daniel was so very good at it.

So impossible, so gorgeous -- Daniel kneeling over him, taking his pleasure from Jack, Jack's intense sensations almost a sideshow to Daniel's obvious ecstasy. He moved, up and down, up and down, and Jack felt the swell of his quads under Jack's hands, but everything he was feeling and seeing soon receded, swamped by the squeeze and push of Daniel's ass, sending waves of pleasure down his shaft and out into his whole body. His skin could hardly contain it.

And at the end, Daniel took hold of his own dick, cupping his hand gently just around the head, pulling, twisting a little, just a few times, and then he clenched around Jack's cock and came, spurting up, coating his own stomach. His head drooped, and he braced himself on Jack's shoulder with his free hand, and he moaned. Seeing all that, and feeling the gliding, erratic tight spasms around his dick, sent Jack over the edge right after him.

Jack winced as Daniel shifted his weight and made him pop free, a little too suddenly, and Daniel fell forward and settled against Jack's chest, smearing his come on the them both. And then perhaps he was going to think better of it and roll away, because he tensed, and Jack felt his hand press against the bed next to Jack's shoulder as if he were about to push himself upright again, but Jack brought sluggish arms up and around Daniel's sweaty back and held him close.

"Mmm," Daniel said, and kissed Jack's shoulder, and gave in and relaxed against him.

Instead of dozing again, Jack found himself becoming more wakeful. Perhaps it was the unfamiliar weight on top of him, perhaps it was the knowledge of how short the time was until the next dislocating change in his life. But he lay there, listening to Daniel doze off, holding him, for a long time.

~~~~

It was so hot already; almost a tropical heat. The high, distant popcorn clouds meant Memphis was probably in for a hell of a thunderstorm later in the afternoon. Jack absently calculated the weather, and concluded it was a good thing his transport was leaving at noon sharp. He realized he was stalling, and he looked at Daniel, who seemed to be frozen in place in the driver's seat, his hand on the car keys.

The Pontiac sat, engine just ticking into silence, a lone car in the parking lot of the little store.

So, so hot. Full summer. Jack felt a bead of sweat start under his collar and trickle along his neck. He watched Daniel's lips, then slid his gaze down Daniel's arm to his fingers.

Jack was determined to say it. It went against most of the rules of the game, but what had they done all night and all morning but break those rules, after all?

He'd known from the first kiss he'd shared with Daniel that he was going to get himself in trouble by starting to care about this man. This wasn't just about the sex. It hadn't been from the very first night. This was something more. He didn't have a name for it, didn't have a plan for it, didn't have anywhere to fit it, but it was real. He wanted so much. Maybe too much. But he had to say something before he left, this time.

He sat there, turning his lighter in his hands, in the front seat of Daniel's car, parked in front of the pay phone where he'd stood the night before and rolled the dice and called. Invited Daniel out on a date.

Jack took a deep breath. "I know this started as just a pick-up. You know, back on Beale Street." He made himself meet Daniel's eyes. Daniel still had one hand on the steering wheel, and he was listening intently. He hadn't put on his glasses this morning to drive. _He must be farsighted, not nearsighted,_ Jack said to himself, distantly.

Daniel nodded, imperceptibly, but Jack saw it. He felt encouraged.

"That's how it started okay, but I'd like...." There were really no words for this at all. No words to use that he knew. He wondered if Daniel knew any words. He puffed out a frustrated breath. Daniel just kept looking at him. "Maybe we could ... be friends. Too." He crinkled his eyes, hoping he was getting through, somehow.

"Friends," Daniel said, and his smile was splendid.

"Keep in touch," Jack said, flailing, but less worried now.

"Yeah," Daniel said.

Jack was brave now. So brave and so reckless. "I could write to you."

Daniel swallowed. "I'd like that," he said. "Very much."

"Okay." Jack didn't dare touch him. He squeezed his Zippo tight enough to hurt the inside of his knuckle. "Okay."

Daniel had this peaceful look, this justified, satisfied look. Thoughtful. He took his right hand from the steering wheel, and offered it for Jack to shake. Jack thought back to Daniel sitting at the table in the club, nailing Jack with his bold gaze, introducing himself with his real name, intervening for them with the pimp. Jack took his hand, and Daniel's grip was firm and strong.

Then Daniel let go, and Jack got out of the car. He paused a moment, and walked around to the driver's side. Daniel had both hands on the wheel, and they looked at each other. Jack put his hands in his pockets.

"See you around," Jack said, and Daniel smiled, and put the car in gear, and drove off and left him there.

Jack watched the Pontiac pause at the corner, and blend into the traffic on the main road, and disappear. He looked at the sky, and looked at that pay phone. He would call the base, and Boyd would come and get him. He had a plane to catch.


	4. Chapter 4

Jack squeezed at the heavy bulge in his khakis, evidence not of some absurdly inappropriate on-base boner, but of the pile of dimes and quarters dragging at his front pocket.

He'd thought he'd need them to stuff into the pay phone, in order to call Memphis from Pensacola. He'd collected them, stowed them, brought them here, to the pay phone by the door of the officers' club, and all his preparations were for nothing. While the phone in Daniel's study rang and rang and rang, the coins hung in his pocket like a stupid case of blue balls -- heavy, infuriating, pathetic. Funny, even, in that slipped-on-a-banana-peel way. Unrequited longing in the guise of the endlessly ringing phone buzzed into his body, a feedback loop of frustration. At first he'd been restless, even a little eager, but now he was angry, too, a slop of half-suppressed feelings wallowing around in his gut. On top of everything else the day had brought, it was too much to expect Daniel would actually be home. No such mercy, today.

After counting thirty rings, Jack hung up and turned away from the phone. Anger and restlessness sank below the surface again, and in their place was a stoic calm. Making himself move deliberately in the sticky, heavy air, Jack pulled his Camels out of his breast pocket, pulled his Zippo out of the pants pocket not weighed down by unneeded change, and lit up.

Daniel wasn't at home. So Daniel couldn't discuss with him the possibility of Jack driving up there, for the weekend.

Dammit.

Jack trudged back down the whitewashed front stairs of the club. He followed the gravel road, under the live oaks, back toward quarters. At the Y in the road, he hesitated, then took the branch to the parking lot where he'd left his Fairlane. He'd bought it used, soon after arriving in Pensacola, with a vaguely held, unexamined sense that he had ... places he would need to drive. He clutched that hope to him now, unthinking, unwilling to examine it closely, but tightly. As protective of it, now, as he'd been with the envelopes that came to him, carefully formal inside and out, the address and return address written in a careful, looping script he'd become familiar with.

He opened the passenger door of his black-and-silver Ford, waiting a minute for the top layer of heat to emerge, hotter than the air now that the sun had slipped almost to the horizon, and then sat down and opened the glove box. He pulled out the maps of Florida, Alabama and Tennessee that he'd recently bought at a gas station, and pondered the route north, once again. Six hours, at the outside. He leaned his head against the hot plastic seat and closed his eyes. If he left now, and crashed for a while on the way, he could be climbing the brick steps of that comfortable deep porch at sunup.

He opened his eyes and looked through the windshield, into the sun glare. He knew he'd be welcome. Probably. Surely. If he had the nerve to just go. If it wouldn't freak Daniel out too much, him coming unannounced. He wanted to. He wanted to get away from here today. Did not want to spend this weekend on this base.

He thought again of the postcards, the letters, received and treasured over the last two months. Newspaper clippings about odd events, Ripley's Believe It Or Not sorts of events, clippings generally sent with no explanatory letters, no notes, nothing. Sometimes a paragraph or two would be underlined in pencil, to make sure Jack got the joke. Sometimes reviews of Muddy Waters or B.B. King concerts from the weekly Negro paper in Memphis. Sometimes brief handwritten notes, about barbecue, or world events, or the Navy. No rhyme or reason to the missives.

Jack mostly sent postcards of live oaks or beach scenes or historical sites, with funny or cryptic aphorisms, just a sentence or two.

He put the maps back in the glove box, closed up the car, and went, moving faster now, to pack his smallest duffel.

~~~~

Dawn was white in the sky when Jack stepped up onto Daniel's dark, north facing front porch, dropped his bag, and stopped, his hand nearly to the doorbell. He pulled it back, paused, and lit a cigarette instead. Brick columns here, just like the back. White painted Adirondack furniture. Tile floor. And he smiled, because there was the butt of the cigarette he'd smoked, waiting for his cab, the first weekend he'd spent here.

It reassured him somehow, though confirming his suspicion that this front porch, and indeed, all the formal spaces of the house, was rarely used. The back door, the kitchen side, was well-traveled. Not this side -- the society side, the "company" side. What that said about Daniel's social life, Jack didn't want to look at too closely.

He was here now, though, because there was no doorbell at the back door, and he needed to announce himself somehow. Pebbles at the bedroom window seemed way too over the top, though suited, somehow, to the insane hour, and to his mood. He shook his head at himself. The doorbell would do fine. He turned back to the doorbell and stepped right up and rang it. Firmly. The deep, unpleasant buzz reverberated. He would probably be waking Daniel up. He'd checked; the gleaming Pontiac was in its usual place in the alley, and no other cars were parked nearby. Which was reassuring, in a way, but in another way meant exactly nothing. After all -- he had not had a car to park on the curb the two times he'd spent the night here. A total of three nights, in all, actually. Two occasions. Three nights. And Daniel could have gone home with someone last night; left the Pontiac here. Jack pushed the thought away. He didn't want to imagine that -- Daniel with someone else, although it was possible and even likely.

He had no right at all to assume Daniel would be here, or even be willing to see him.

Except for his old cigarette butt, lying there on the porch. The funny clippings, week by week, arriving in his Pensacola mailbox on base. The memory of skin, of that rough beautiful voice calling his name.

He waited a couple of minutes and pressed the buzzer again.

The house was solid. He heard nothing, and there was a pleated cotton curtain drawn over the clear, beveled panes of the big door.

He put his hands in the pockets of his chinos.

He had decided to try once more, one more time before concluding Daniel was gone, and he'd reached up and buzzed for just a couple of seconds, when the door opened. It was Daniel, in the same blue chenille bathrobe, muzzy with sleep.

"Jack," Daniel said, his face going from puzzled to surprised. "Oh my god."

"Hi," Jack said, hands back in his pockets.

Daniel opened the door all the way and stepped back. "Come in, come in, it's good to see you, my god, this is a surprise." Daniel ran his hand through his hair, mussing it further. He closed the big door behind Jack. Jack smiled. He stepped in and folded Daniel into a bear hug, and he closed his eyes when he felt Daniel's arms come around him. He leaned his head back and found Daniel's mouth. Lips dry with sleep, sour morning breath, and it tasted so good to Jack. He tightened his arms, kissing Daniel hard, not pushing with his tongue, not wanting to assault him with need, but wanting so much to connect. To make it real that he'd arrived here, that they were together again, that Daniel was not an idea but a fact. The kiss was long. Daniel seemed to freeze into it, seeming to notice only their mouths, not his hands, pressing against Jack's back, or how Jack's body was pressed against him. When they pulled apart, Daniel said, "Mmm."

Jack leaned back a little more to look into Daniel's eyes, unobscured by glasses, and now very much awake and very happy looking.

"I tried to call last night," Jack said. "I hope this is okay, just showing up like this."

"I was at a thing at the university." Daniel waved a vague hand, and leaned in again to kiss Jack. Hard. Insistent. With tongue. This kiss, too, went on for a while, and when Daniel pulled away, eyes closed, mouth wet, Jack was breathless.

"Guess that means it's okay," Jack murmured, and took Daniel's mouth again.

When that kiss finally ended, Daniel said, "Breakfast?" still leaning in as he spoke, so that his mouth was still against Jack's, "or shall we just go back to bed right now."

"Hmm," Jack said, smiling, punctuating his words with small kisses, pretending to ponder. "So hard to choose. Hmm."

Daniel grabbed his head and kissed him hard, and halfway through the kiss his hand smoothed over Jack's shirt and down to his chinos and felt for his quickly hardening dick. He pressed in, prodding Jack's groin with his hipbone.

"Well, let me choose for you, then." Daniel stepped back and smiled, bright as a sunrise.

He took Jack's hand and turned for the stairs. Jack's mind raced ahead, to the bedroom, to skin, and then he paused, pulling away from Daniel's hand.

"I left my bag on the porch," Jack said, and turned around and went back out for it. As he closed the door again, he looked up to see Daniel leaning against the banister, arms spread, waiting for him, and he'd opened his robe and he was bare-chested, wearing those same striped pajama bottoms that Jack had filched from him before. His chest was tanned and smooth, and Jack remembered the chaise in the back yard the last time he'd been here, right before he left town for his posting to Florida. He hurried up the stairs and caught Daniel around the waist, sliding his hand inside the robe to feel Daniel's skin. He kissed the corner of his eye, already moving with him up the broad stairs.

The bedroom was just as he remembered, except there were more books and some legal pads covered in notes in the same looping, careful script, on one side of the bed and on both nightstands. Jack let himself feel glad that it looked like only one side of the bed had been seeing use. He set his duffel at the door and unbuttoned his shirt, watching Daniel drop his robe and the loose pants on the floor and step out of them. Then Daniel stood still, watching Jack, hands on his hips. Looking at him made Jack all-the-way hard. He undressed quickly and took those two steps and took hold of Daniel again. Jack closed his eyes, kissing lips, cheek, sideburn, neck. When he felt the bed against their knees he sat, but Daniel went to the floor, to his knees. Jack caught his breath. He opened his legs and Daniel knelt between them.

"I could shower," Jack whispered. He didn't seem to have any voice left. "Spent most of last night driving." He swallowed, but there was nothing to swallow. "Sticky. Hot night."

"Don't shower," Daniel said, cradling his dick and his balls, rubbing his lips in along the shaft to kiss Jack's belly. "I like it; I like how you smell."

Jack murmured something, more moan than acquiescence, and let his hands rest on Daniel's head, thumbing his temples gently, while Daniel went down on him.

It was warm and close and perfect. Until Jack had done this to Daniel, he'd understood how much pleasure he got from it, but had not understood how much pleasure there was in doing it. It seemed to be two equal parts of bliss -- feeling Daniel's mouth on his dick, and getting to watch Daniel's mouth, his lips getting darker and plusher with the friction and the pressure. His eyes were tightly closed, and Jack could see the flush in his cheeks, the way they hollowed slightly when he paused in his licking and tasting to suck a little. It held off the rush of arousal -- these visuals, layered on top of the intense sensations. Jack was glad he'd jacked off in the shower of the lousy motel he'd crashed in for a couple of hours in northern Alabama. Now he would be able to hold on. Because during the long night drive, he'd let his mind linger lovingly over how would do this, just how he'd fuck Daniel into the mattress when he saw him.

If Daniel got him off like this now, it would be way too fast, and he hadn't wanted fast this time. He wanted to saturate himself with Daniel, cover himself with Daniel's scent and his skin and his touch. He wanted to make love, to feel. He knew that he was using Daniel to escape, this time, but that was all right.

"Baby," Jack said, when Daniel was lingering for way too long over the head, bobbing a little, pressing with his tongue so that the tip was nestled against his palate and the suction and the sensation were intense, technicolor. "Baby -- don't do that too long, or I'll come before we get to fuck."

The words sent a shiver through Daniel. Without moving, he managed to look up and meet Jack's eyes. The connection Jack was feeling suddenly tripled -- sensation, sight, and now the incandescent blue of Daniel's eyes, meeting his. All that lust and passion unveiled, and all aimed at Jack. He groaned and leaned back, letting go of Daniel's head and leaning back on his hands. Daniel smiled, and slowed his movements, and then, slowly, slowly, pulled off. Deliberately, without hurry, he crawled up on the bed beside Jack, touching him the whole time, shoulder, arm, side, thigh, and then Daniel turned, looking over his shoulder, resting on knees and elbows. Jack's dick jerked, just looking at the curving lines of ribs and waist and ass. Daniel spread his knees, sinking a little lower. He was smiling. Jack couldn't move for a minute. He panted a little. He was actually salivating.

"What do you need; an engraved invitation?" Daniel said.

They both laughed, and it was like rain on Jack's heart, and he scrambled around and got behind Daniel. No plan, now. He'd departed entirely from the dreamscape that had floated before his eyes, at times almost obscuring the yellow lines that had spooled away under his wheels, all the previous night. The sharp reality of this bedroom, this man, this morning, was right here, before him now. He put his hand against Daniel's warm hip, right on his tan line, and folded down over his own knees and stretched his neck. He licked from the swell of Daniel's balls slowly upward, pressing a little, across the short path of pale skin, then across the warm spicy pucker of his asshole, all the way up until he could feel the tip of the tailbone, and then Jack slowly, slowly licked back down. Daniel's ass twitched and shivered under his mouth. He nuzzled in against the balls, which were tighter now, and after a bit of enjoying that he moved up again to lick Daniel's asshole, and he pressed in, trying to penetrate Daniel with his tongue. Daniel was moaning, and his hand had groped back to cover Jack's at his hip, and Jack could feel him melting, opening.

If Jack had stopped to think about doing this, ever, before he had done it to Daniel -- if someone had asked him, at any point before Daniel, if this were something he would consider part of sex, something he'd like, something he'd want, he would have laughed. But he wasn't laughing now. He was reveling, tasting, fucking Daniel with his tongue, and it made him so hard he was leaking.

He was still clutching Daniel's hip and he found he could move one finger to wrap over Daniel's thumb, and he also brought up his other hand to pull Daniel's cheek a little wider, trying to get more room to get further inside. He tilted his head a little, pushed in as far as he could, getting more of his tongue in. Daniel was sinking onto his spread knees, and that helped the angle a lot -- it spread him wider and tilted him toward Jack. Jack brought his thumb in, almost against his own tongue, pushing, opening Daniel to the wet probing slide. Daniel kept moaning -- glorious, broken sounds. He tasted so good against Jack's tongue, in his mouth. Rich and bitter, all at once. Jack balanced better on his knees and slid his hand out from under Daniel's and snaked it in under his own chin to touch Daniel's dick. Daniel was so hard now, and when Jack's questing fingertips closed around the taut shaft, sliding down toward the leaking head, Daniel bucked backward against Jack's mouth, and his moans became cries. He turned his head to muffle them in the pillow.

Jack's tongue and neck were getting tired, but he was so high with this. He realized he was going to bring Daniel off, soon, just from this, and that sparked a new flood of delight down his spine and in his balls. He rubbed the head of Daniel's cock and pushed in with his other thumb, getting it inside a little, next to his tongue. Daniel yelled into the pillow and tightened around Jack's tongue and came, spurting between Jack's fingers, his balls tight and cool against Jack's chin. His ass squeezed so hard, he pushed Jack's tongue completely out, and so Jack just gently continued to squeeze his dick and lick him, making Daniel cry out, weakly now, in time to his licks, and Daniel pulsed warmly into Jack's hand for a while, his ass shivering. Then he collapsed suddenly, into the mattress, straightening one leg. Jack went down with him, his hand still between Daniel's legs, palm flat against the soft part of his thigh, and he turned his head and wiped his mouth and rested his head on Daniel's buttock. He carefully straightened out his legs and waited. He couldn't help pushing his dick, just a little, against Daniel's thigh. Like an engine, on idle. His arousal had plateaued. It was like a beautiful red high, now, and he could stay here a while, listening and feeling Daniel start to come down, and then he would fuck him. He closed his eyes and thought about that.

"Jesus Christ," Daniel said. "Do you come with a warning label?"

Jack laughed. He brought his hands up and squeezed Daniel's ass, and then got to his own hands and knees. Daniel's skin was flushed. His ass was creamy, his tan was the color of toast. He really did look good enough to eat. _Ha,_ Jack thought. _Been there, done that._

"About that engraved invitation," Jack said.

"Oh, Jesus Christ," Daniel said, and writhed again, spreading a knee wider, showing Jack all of his beautiful ass again. Jack grinned and moved away. He had not caught himself downstairs and brought his duffel in because he was afraid something would happen to it out there on the porch in the course of the morning. He had brought it in because he had something they would need. He climbed to the floor and unzipped his bag, quickly finding the antiseptic-looking white box. When he turned back to the bed, Daniel was watching him.

He met Daniel's eyes and opened the box as he talked. "This should be better than Vaseline. Won't stain quite as much. It's water based."

"You were a Boy Scout, weren't you," Daniel said, and hiked his hips a little higher and bent his elbows, getting his hands under the pillow and getting his head settled back over them. Jack's grin faded to a "I can't believe my own luck" sort of smile. He knelt behind Daniel with his new lube, and he was generous with spreading it on Daniel's ass and on himself.

He stroked down and over Daniel again, loving the give of the muscles, their texture, the slightly grainy skin. He said, "Fingers again?"

"I don't know," Daniel said, very thoughtful, like he was being asked his opinion on the success of the bus boycott, and he pushed a little against Jack's hand, and one of Jack's fingers slid in. God, the memory, the reality -- tightness, smooth heat. How many times had Jack found a way to be alone in the shower and jack off to this memory.

"So, it can't hurt," Jack said, and leaned a little to one side, watching his fingers disappear into Daniel's ass, gently stroking him and stretching him, until he had Daniel moaning and rocking and his balls drawing up tight once again.

Jack bit his lip and got to his knees, pulling Daniel up with him. They had tried it like this once already, the morning of his last trip. The last time they'd fucked before he left for Florida. And he remembered how it went. It seemed like it stretched Daniel open the most, when he was up on his knees like this. If Daniel lay flat, hips against a pillow, the angle was different, and Jack could get deeper, but this was a great angle, too, and it let Jack move quite a bit.

One hand clutching Daniel's hip -- and he had to wipe off some of the stuff and then grab hold again -- one hand to aim himself, and Jesus Christ, coming had made Daniel so loose and ready, because he pushed himself onto Jack's cock more than Jack pushed into him.

"My god. Baby," Jack groaned, and hung on to both Daniel's hips and tried to take it slow. All his nerve endings were screaming at him to push, to pound, but he let Daniel set the pace. Let Daniel fuck him.

They slowly eased and slipped and shifted, and they eventually found a great angle -- Daniel balanced on his widespread knees, Jack balanced just slightly over him, and at the end, it was heavy and hard and fast. Daniel had reached back to hold his hip, and he was panting loud enough for Jack to hear him, and Jack had a dim memory of calling Daniel's name, loudly, lingering over the vowels, as he pressed forward, probably straining Daniel's thigh muscles, shooting into him. It was a long, long climax.

Jack came-to with his head between Daniel's sweaty shoulder blades. Daniel's hand was pressed against his lower back. Jack grunted and shifted and pulled out slowly. He collapsed to one side. Daniel was smiling at him, a sweet smile, a tender smile. His hairline was sweaty. Jack reached out and thumbed Daniel's sideburn again, frowning a little.

Daniel's smile widened at the touch. It was kind of getting to be a habit with him, this particular kind of petting -- Jack knew that, but he couldn't resist the curve of Daniel's jawbone, the way his face seemed to fit into Jack's palm as if custom made to rest there.

They looked into each other's eyes for a long time, the tiny stroking motion against Daniel's face continuing all the while.

"I'm so glad you're here," Daniel said, finally.

"Yeah," Jack said. He knew his heart was in his eyes, but there didn't seem to be anything he could do about that.

Daniel sighed and closed his eyes and snuggled in, out from under Jack's hand at his head. He snuggled right in, shameless, and put his face under Jack's jaw and relaxed against him. He put a leg over Jack's legs. Jack smiled and closed his eyes, too, and the twilight in there was peaceful, now, and safe. He slept.

He woke to the smell of coffee and an empty bed. He smiled, because he could see they'd pushed some books and pads of paper off the bed in an avalanche. Daniel had clearly tidied up some this morning. Jack figured he wouldn't generally abuse books like that. He didn't seem the type. Jack had found some reference books, history texts, part of an encyclopedia, in a dumpster once, years ago, and that just seemed wrong, to see books ruined and waterlogged like that. Daniel would have thought it wrong, too, Jack was sure.

He got up, slowly, joint by stiff joint, and noticed Daniel had left his bathrobe on the floor, but the pajama bottoms he'd been wearing early in the morning were gone. Jack pondered taking a shower immediately, but the craving for a cigarette won out. He pulled on Daniel's robe, found his lighter and his Camels, and went on downstairs.

The kitchen was empty, but there was coffee in the pot and a cup on the counter. The back door was open. Jack smiled and poured his coffee and pushed through the screen. There was Daniel, in the swing under the willow shade. His head was back, his eyes were closed, and he was cradling a coffee mug between his thighs. Jack let the door close with a slight thwap, so that Daniel would hear him coming, and he walked up to Daniel and bent down and kissed him, kissed him slowly and thoroughly, before he even thought about anyone seeing it. Daniel was looking at him as he pulled away.

"Sorry," Jack said. "Probably shouldn't do that out here."

"It's still early," Daniel said, but he was frowning. Jack realized he had fallen into the trap of thinking of this house as a safe place, a free space, but outdoors was outdoors. He kicked himself mentally, and turned away to hide his embarrassment. He scratched the back of his head and put his cup on the concrete railing and felt for his cigarettes.

He smoked, looking at the yard, thinking of nothing but the ease of heat he could feel already, reflecting up, sunlight on the short, emerald grass. The willow sighed beside him. It was breezy today -- not cool. Warm and sticky. Daniel was beside him, suddenly. Daniel nudged him with his bare shoulder, and held his hand out. Jack glanced at him and handed over the cigarette. Daniel took a drag, then huffed out a controlled plume of smoke, and handed the cigarette back. Then he drank some coffee. Jack did, too.

"How long can you stay?" Daniel said.

"Well, a couple of days, I guess. If you want."

"I want," Daniel said, and brushed Jack's shoulder with his hand and sat down in the swing again.

Daniel had a lot of food in the house, which he insisted was merely a lucky coincidence, and they cooked eggs with cheese and onion, and toast, and diced up a cantaloupe and fried a pound of bacon and made some orange juice and then actually set the table in the sun room, with cloth napkins and everything, like a restaurant. They sat down and ate breakfast until Jack thought he might explode.

They left the dishes there on the table and went back out to the porch for another cigarette (just Jack, this time) and another pot of coffee.

Later, when Jack thought about it, he realized they'd talked all morning about the Florida Panhandle, because Daniel's father, surprise, had been born in Destin, and they talked about Mobile, and the Navy, and the housing boom in Memphis, and the bus boycotts, and the unions, and world events, and Jack was totally captivated by the conversation until Daniel sat down beside him in the swing and asked him, "Do you want to talk some more or is it time to go back to bed?" He put his hand on Jack's knee as he asked.

Jack paused a minute and looked at him. Daniel returned the look, and then he leaned back and drank coffee, leaving his hand on Jack's knee the whole time.

"I've never met anyone like you," Jack blurted. "I can't believe we're doing this."

"I know," Daniel said. "I know." He looked into the distance and finished his coffee. He seemed to need coffee the way Jack needed cigarettes. "Come on," he said, and got up.

This weekend was the same as before -- timeless sessions of lovemaking that only ended when they were too sweaty or hungry or sleepy to go on another minute, another orgasm. Daniel had enough food, and Jack had packed an entire carton of Camels, so they never left the house the entire weekend.

Monday morning, Jack lay in bed for close to an hour and watched Daniel sleep, until Daniel stirred on his own and felt blindly for Jack and pulled him close. Jack went, gladly, not worrying any more about the sappy romantic way he could easily find a soft resting spot for his head on the cushion of Daniel's shoulder and upper arm.

"We should make coffee," Daniel said absently.

"Yeah," Jack said, and he ran his hand down Daniel's abs and over his erection and down his thigh, as far as he could reach. Daniel's hair was strangely wiry there on his leg, considering how smooth his skin was -- finer grained and denser than Jack's own. His hand knew Daniel's skin now. Daniel felt familiar.

Jack opened his mouth and turned his head a little to kiss Daniel's shoulder, and then he surprised himself, because words came out, too with the kiss. He said, "A guy got killed in training Friday. Put his jet right into the swamp."

"You're kidding," Daniel said, and his arm tightened around Jack's shoulder. "No, sorry, what a shitty thing to say. You're not kidding. You're entirely serious. I'm so sorry, Jack. Did you see it? Were you there?"

"Yeah, I was on his wing. Just behind him. We mostly practice over the Everglades. I think I told you that."

"Yes. Yes, you did.... My god."

"His engine started to smoke, he talked himself through the checklist, we all kind of hung back, eased out of the formation, and then, he couldn't hold a bank, he couldn't control the plane. He was just. Gone. I don't know why he couldn't bail out. I guess he ran out of time."

"You knew him. He was a friend of yours."

"Well, friend. I don't know. But yeah. I knew him."

Daniel's arm tightened around him again, and Jack let his head just rest there on Daniel's shoulder. Somehow, it felt so good to get the words out from inside himself. To say them, and know that Daniel had heard them. A pilot had died. The funeral was tomorrow, Tuesday. They'd all been given Monday off. So this was Monday now, already, today, too soon. But it was allright. Because he had come, and Daniel had been glad to see him. And Daniel had heard. He could talk to Daniel. _Huh._

And now, they would get up, and he would drink some coffee, eat something, and head on back down 51 to the big bay, and the tough bouncy Tigers. And what had happened to Stevens wouldn't happen to him; he didn't have that kind of bad luck -- at least not with planes. He loved the F11's, and the F11's loved him. But it had been good to get away. Good to drive into the night, the day it had happened. Good to hear the smooth thrumming pulse of the Fairlane's V-8, all night long, good to find Daniel here in this house at the end of the night, good to be here, against his skin. Inside him. Jack closed his eyes. They were quiet for a long time. The sun brightened behind the blinds. The room grew warm. It still smelled faintly of lavender. A stray sunbeam caught the edge of the closet mirror, striking a rainbow into the glass.

"Coffee?" Daniel said, and Jack said, "Yeah."


	5. Chapter 5

**August 1957**

The postcard said "Florida: The Sunshine State", and it was just a map of the sprawling peninsula and the panhandle, with garish, heavily outlined pineapples and cows and Spanish moss and airplanes and oranges, in appropriate places. The water was a dark midnight blue that Jack had actually never seen in the water of any real ocean, and he'd seen, now, the Gulf of Mexico, the Atlantic, the Pacific, and the Sea of Japan.

He checked that the stamp was stuck on there good and tight, and he pushed the postcard into the mailbox. He'd written on it in black ball point: _Just found out -- The Angels will appear at the Memphis Air Show on the Saturday of Labor Day weekend. If I could get free tickets, I would. Sorry.... J._

After performing on Saturday, the team would be expected to fly right back to Pensacola bright and early on Sunday morning, but there was a very good possibility (if the other guys' behavior, after their official nighttime check-in at their hotels at the two shows he'd been part of so far, was any indication) that Jack would be able to slip away for most of Saturday night. A very good possibility.

He smiled, and patted the rounded top of the blue mailbox, and sauntered back to quarters.

~~~~

Jack breathed carefully, bearing down hard with his abs, textbook, and so his vision was sharp -- not even one swimming black spot -- as his F11 screamed into the sky, fully vertical, executing his share of the spectacular finale of the Blue Angels' portion of the Memphis airshow.

_Yeah._

His helmeted head pressed into the cushioned seat back. He smiled, just a little, to himself, flicking his gaze from the view out of either side of the cockpit, to his altimeter, and back around again. He could just glimpse Holly and Knott, right where they were supposed to be on his left and on his right.

Jack's responsive, eager Tiger climbed and climbed. The sky shaded a little darker, and Jack got ready to pull out and head back to horizontal flight. Conditions were perfect -- unlimited ceiling, and a north breeze in the wake of a cold front. His Tiger liked the cooler air, and he smiled a little wider as he noted the slight change in the whine coming from the engine as he reached his highest altitude.

"That's a wrap," Jack heard -- Holly's voice coming in a low crackle through the radio. "Nice work. See you on the ground, boys."

Then Holly spoke to the tower, and the tower talked back to them all, confirming, guiding, sending them all around the far edge of the airspace, and, finally, down to the runways.

Jack was No. 5 now in their tightly knit club of six, and he allowed himself to relax a little as he took his place into the queue for landing, once again heading for the big No. 3 runway, which still looked so familiar, here at the Millington NAS.

He followed Knott in, as always, and then Jack's wheels touched down, with Hiett right behind him, and that meant their part of the finale of the Labor Day Airshow had gone off without a hitch.

Back at the hangar came another routine -- Hiett, with his continual complaining that he was No. 6, dead last, only because he was a Marine and thus not a real airdale in the others' eyes, and of course Jack and the others wound him up about that without mercy. Yeah. Everything as usual. Everything smooth as silk.

There was nothing sweeter in Jack's experience than the euphoria that washed through him for a perfect performance like that. He didn't even need the cheering that would surround them in an hour or so, when they'd shed their flight suits and gotten back into uniform and filed out to meet the crowd at the hangar and sign the autographs.

This feeling, right now, was all the reward he needed. It was a little sweeter than usual, he supposed, since today, there might be a familiar shy grin in the crowd. Old-fashioned gold glasses and a white straw fedora and a linen suit, maybe, among today's crowd of autograph seekers. And, because it was Memphis, and because the guy was named Daniel, Jack was hoping, very much to get even luckier than he'd just been and, after a few more hours, experience that other kind of euphoria -- the kind that almost, almost, rivaled what he was feeling now.

~~~~

Jack looked up from signing another glossy eight by ten of the six Tigers, in their famous diamond plus two formation, and there he was. There was Daniel. Backlit by the sunset that was lighting up the big west doors of the second-biggest hangar, Daniel was just behind the front line of the crowd. When Jack caught his eye, he pressed in and reached out his hand.

Jack grinned and they shook. Daniel was grinning too. Jack had been right about it all, what Daniel would look like -- the linen suit, the summer hat. Daniel looked like a vanilla sundae. Yum.

"Daniel!" he said. "Good to see you. So glad you could make it!"

"It's good to be here. Thanks for the heads up." Daniel put his hands in his pockets and scrunched in on himself just a little. Jack glanced over at his teammates.

"Hiett, this is Daniel Jackson. Another real Memphis jazz fan."

"Ah," Hiett said, and shook hands, and Daniel was polite, smiling, but the wattage was considerably less. Then Hiett was diverted by a teenager with another glossy photo, but Holly was looking over, looking interested.

Daniel said to Jack, "Audra was asking about you."

"Was she, now," Jack said, and he didn't know whether to be happy for the subterfuge or saddened by reminder of the necessity for speaking in code. Daniel was quick. They hadn't worked out anything like this in advance, but it was, of course, perfect.

"Yes, she was. She wanted me to make sure you knew she was off work tonight."

Jack grinned and tried to look interested in the hypothetical date with the waitress that he remembered vividly only because she had played such a big role in his first encounter with Daniel. "I'll keep that in mind. She knows we won't be able to get away until late?"

"I'll let her know." And Daniel winked at him. Winked at him, right there. The scallywag.

Jack grinned at him, because the wink smoothed away all the awkwardness. It was pure Daniel, pure mischievous fun. And then he had to shake the hand of a father and a son, and sign another glossy. When he looked up, Daniel was gone.

"Do you have a girl in every port, O'Neill?" Hiett said.

"Well, no, not exactly, but I was in Memphis almost all spring this year, doing some training. You meet people," Jack answered, deprecatingly. Hiett was married, and furthermore, disapproved of what he considered loose morals.

"Ah," Hiett said. And that was that. At least Jack hoped it was.

~~~~

It was nearly midnight when Jack had the cab drop him two blocks from Daniel's house, which was probably a stupid precaution, but one he felt he had to take, since it was official business this time and all.

He took a second to light a cigarette, then set off walking through the neighborhood, his hands damp with anticipation.

The night was a little cool. The streets were quiet and dark. He turned at the corner, noticing the lights on in Daniel's house, and made his way to the back yard. Walking up the brick path made him think about the very first time he'd been here -- coming through Daniel's back yard, just like this, after Daniel had picked him up in that club. They should go back there some time. Maybe on the same date next year. What a sappy thought. Jack shook his head at himself.

The night was the same, the magnolias were the same, but nothing else was. Nothing had been the same for Jack since. He'd thought he was just going to come downtown to hear some real jazz, but he'd found something so real, so important, so strange, so surprising. Something -- some_one_ that he knew he wasn't getting over any time soon. He thought about Daniel a lot, when they weren't together. He'd never done that before. He'd hook up with people -- with women, and occasionally with carefully chosen, carefully concealed men, and it would be fun, his itches would get scratched, and he'd move on. But with Daniel, it was different. He'd found that his postcards and letters had assumed the same weight, the same importance, as letters from his sister and his mom -- if possible, more. And the visits, when he could steal the time. The visits were oases. Jack looked forward to them more than he wanted to admit.

It was a tug at his heart, this thing with Daniel. A bittersweet, yearning tug that was only eased during the rare times he could spend in Daniel's presence. Walking along in the dark, he wondered, sadly, if this was going to be it -- this furtive kind of visiting to this big comfortable house, every few months, until he got called overseas again or retired or ... went crazy. Ferretti had gone home to Chicago and Diane and opened a hardware store. Kawalsky was back in the Seventh Fleet, waxing eloquent in his letters about the girls in Japan. Boyd had been sent to the Mediterranean on the new carrier, the Forrestal. And here was Jack -- stateside, with a plum appointment, a lucky dog, a reluctant celebrity. With a big, big secret. He shook his head and tossed the Camel in the gutter. He noted Daniel's Sky Chief in the alley behind the second magnolia, and headed on up the brick path to the back door. He was pretty sure, after what Daniel had said to him, that he'd find the porch door unlatched and the kitchen door open. And so they were.

As soon as he was inside, he heard the piano. Something rippling and sad and classical, and Jack stood there in the crimson-draped dining room, a hand on one of the carved chair backs, listening. He had no idea who the composer was, or what the song was, but it was complex and yearning and heartbreaking, full of blue, bent notes. Then he heard a mistake, a missed key, a hesitant break in the rhythm, and then another bad note, and then a lot of keys crashing together, and there was silence.

Jack breathed again, and started walking, through the living room, to the downstairs hall, and now it was song he recognized. A song everyone knew.

_Summertime  
And the living is easy  
Fish are jumping and the cotton is high  
Your daddy's rich and your momma's good looking  
So hush, little baby, don't you cry._

Jack leaned in the doorway of the music room and watched Daniel's back. There was carpet in here; something faded and Oriental and thick. The grand piano was black and glossy and Daniel's clothes were stark against it. He was wearing his white linen slacks, and his belt, but his feet were bare. He'd taken off his dress shirt, but he had on his undershirt. There was a glass of white wine, half empty, sweating, on the glossy shelf of the piano by Daniel's right hand.

_One of these mornings  
You're gonna rise up singing  
Spread your wings  
And take to the sky._

Daniel's hands paused on the keys, and he stopped. He sat there a minute, silent, not moving, and then he reached for the wine and took a sip.

Jack came off the door jamb. He didn't want to startle Daniel, who clearly had no idea he was even there.

"Hey," Jack said softly, and Daniel jumped a little and turned, still holding his glass. The look in Daniel's eyes before he got happy, and excited to see Jack, was sad -- as yearning as the song. It made Jack melt. He came forward and took the wine glass from Daniel's hand and drank from it, holding Daniel's glance. He held it at his side and leaned down, slowly, slowly, and kissed Daniel. They tasted the same, like the wine -- tart and lemony and sharp.

Daniel moaned a little, back in his throat, in that way that always made Jack hard, and his hand came around the back of Jack's head. They kissed, their tongues touching, then sliding, then taking turns pushing into each others' mouths.

Jack got just as lightheaded, leaning over like that, as he did when he forgot to be scrupulous about his breathing and his ab exercises in the F11. The kiss was long.

Finally Jack leaned back, just a little, and straightened, looking down. Daniel, looking up at him, licked his lips. The movement, so small, so sexy, went right to Jack's dick, like it always did.

"Hi," Jack said.

"You made it," Daniel breathed. Daniel stood up and stepped close and pushed his tongue right into Jack's mouth. This kiss, too, was long and deep. At the end, Jack slid his arm around Daniel's waist and moved to stand beside him. They both sat down again on the glossy black bench. Jack glanced at Daniel and drank another sip of the wine. He rarely drank wine, but this was interesting -- complex and not at all sweet. Not what he was expecting. It tasted good. It tasted expensive. He handed the goblet back to Daniel.

Daniel took it, and let it rest on his thigh. He just sat there and looked at Jack for a minute, and he looked a little shocked.

"That was amazing, today," Daniel said.

"Thank you," Jack said.

"I mean, I knew what you did, in a way, theoretically, but that. That was .... very cutting edge. Very effortful, and yet... It was... "

"You don't have to talk about it. I mean, I'm not looking for a review." Jack was puzzled by Daniel's confusion. He rarely struggled for words like this. Jack was happy Daniel had enjoyed the show, happy he had made it a point to invite him, happy Daniel had wanted to come.

"It's not that. I wish I had words. I just. The planes, what you all can make them do, the skill involved, the risk.... "

They sat there. Jack was intensely aware of his knee pressing against Daniel's thigh. He reached over and took the wineglass from Daniel again.

"If you're not going to drink this..."

They stared into each others' eyes. Daniel made a vague little gesture -- "help yourself" -- and Jack drained the glass. He put it on the floor beside him and put his hand on Daniel's knee.

"That was beautiful; what you were playing."

"Thank you." Daniel looked abstracted.

"_Spread your wings, and take to the sky_.... Right? That was the line?"

Daniel smiled, a fleeting, sad smile. "That's right. Of course you'd know the words."

Jack shrugged. He was looking at Daniel's mouth.

Daniel said, "Can we go to bed now?"

Jack answered, "Works for me."

They stood, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to hold Daniel's hand, to link their fingers, as they walked through the house, snapping the lights out as they went. They climbed the stairs, still holding hands. The landing and the big bedroom were warmer than the ground floor, still holding the heat from the day.

Daniel paused in the doorway of the bedroom, and rested his free hand on Jack's arm. He seemed to be enjoying touching him without being quite aware that he was doing it.

"The room's kind of hot -- I could open the windows, but..."

"But then we'd have to be really quiet."

"Yeah," Daniel grinned at him, a sweet smile. Not evil, not lustful. Just sweet. Something turned over in Jack's chest and he took Daniel by the chin and kissed him, slowly, gently. He looked into Daniel's eyes, and then stepped back.

"I think we can just make do with the ceiling fan, don't you?"

Daniel smiled again, still thoughtful but happier, and started taking off his clothes. Jack followed suit, putting his khakis over the back of the sofa so they wouldn't wrinkle too much. He watched Daniel as he, naked now, moved to the nightstand and set his glasses on it, then turned with a "Just remembered something" glance and went down the hall to the bathroom. He came back with the new lube.

Jack went to him and folded him close, enjoying the smooth sweep of skin. "Yeah, we're definitely going to want that," he said, and kissed Daniel's cheek.

It was strange to feel rather calm about all this. He was aroused already, yeah, he wanted Daniel very much, but it had a been a long day and he was mentally still very sharp while physically in a happy, tired kind of zone. None of the guys had drunk at dinner, as was the rule when they were going to be flying within 24 hours, and so he wasn't fuzzy or silly at all. He was just peaceful, and very, very glad to be here. Mellow.

Maybe it was the music -- that sweet Gershwin song. Whatever the reason, sliding along the linen sheets to lie down felt different to Jack tonight. He was suspended, in a timeless place, like he sometimes felt in the sky, when there were no clouds and it was easy to forget how fast you were really moving.

_Until that day, there ain't no one can harm you..._

They slid onto the bed, and turned to each other, and kissed, and kissed, short kisses, then long ones. They kissed away the taste of the wine until they were drinking only each other. Jack held Daniel against him. Daniel was hard. Daniel petted Jack's back and side with long strokes, and his breathing was slowly speeding up. Jack smiled through the kisses, happy to be making Daniel feel pleasure, feel that sweet desire.

Daniel grunted and heaved himself over, scrunching in and putting his head on Jack's shoulder and running a hand over the peak of Jack's nipple, down, through fur, to the dip just inside his hip and back into the fur on his leg. Then up again.

Daniel said, and his voice was dreamy, "You know, until today I didn't realize your real name was Jonathan. I'm surprised you never told me that; I would have thought I would have needed the whole name for the IPO?" Jack chuckled. "Do you realize," Daniel went on, warming to his subject, his hand never ceasing its slow glide over Jack's skin, "that I didn't even know your rank, until you sent me that first postcard?"

"It wasn't important," Jack protested, and he turned his head a little to press a kiss to Daniel's hair.

Daniel paused. "No, I suppose it wasn't.... You look really hot in those summer whites, you know."

"Yes, and I have the sweat stains to prove it," Jack said, and brought his arm up around Daniel's shoulders and squeezed him close. He was rewarded by a grunt and a press of Daniel's lips to his neck. Then Daniel started laughing, a warm buzzing purr against Jack's neck.

"You know that's not what I meant, you asshole," Daniel said.

"Why, Doctor Jackson, do you kiss your -- sister with that mouth," Jack said, making the cliche work at the last minute, awkwardly, he thought, but Daniel laughed anyway. Then Jack scrunched down to do the kissing himself, nudging as close as he could, threading his fingers through Daniel's soft, short hair, making his lips as soft as he could, licking around the inside of Daniel's mouth.

The new feeling stayed with him -- the calm, mellow feeling. It was different. He was different, now. He rolled back, toward his side of the bed, bringing Daniel with him, and spread his legs. Daniel nestled between them. Their hard dicks were a warm rub of intense sensation. Daniel stretched, leaning on an elbow, and closed his eyes. He kissed Jack again, easing higher, and his dick jabbed the soft skin of Jack's lower belly. Jack rolled his hips a little, loving the feeling of them rubbing together. Jack put his arms around Daniel's shoulders. Daniel kept kissing him, and in the middle of a kiss Jack tilted his chin up, moving his lips away and instead offering Daniel his neck. Daniel kissed along Jack's jaw and down, nipping at the spot he knew Jack loved. The spot he'd left a little sore, that first weekend. Jack smiled. He tightened his arms around Daniel's middle, and wrapped a heel around Daniel's calf, spreading their legs wider. Daniel leaned on his elbows a little more and bit gently at Jack's neck, making him moan. He moved his leg up some more, bending his knee, stroking across Daniel's ass. He rolled his hips again.

Daniel raised up so that he could look into Jack's face, and Jack stroked his shoulders, admiring the clean line of his neck, his fresh shave, the prominent collar bone. He brushed one finger across the hollow at the base of Daniel's throat. Then he met Daniel's eyes.

He narrowed his, and pushed up with his hips again and wrapped both his heels around Daniel's thighs.

Daniel licked his lips again. Jack could feel his cock pulse in the hollow between Jack's own dick and Jack's leg. It felt sublime. Daniel said softly, "You want that tonight?"

Jack nodded. He didn't have to think, or decide. It seemed obvious. Funny. So obvious, so exciting.

"Really.... That's something you...."

Why was it easy to say this? Why was it easy to admit? "I want to try it, with you."

Daniel's smile went from tentative to hungry. Jack loved awakening the wild fierceness behind Daniel's well-bred facade. He'd found a half dozen ways to do it, ways he loved replaying in his mind in the long weeks between his visits to Memphis, and apparently now he'd discovered one more.

"You've never done this. Been the one to bottom."

Jack shook his head. He didn't mind Daniel asking him questions. Daniel had a beautiful way of focusing his attention on you -- it was never like being interrogated. It was like he cared, like he really wanted the answer. Like he saved up your answers and thought about them later.

Daniel absorbed that nod, looking as if he had a million things to say, but he didn't say them. He kissed Jack. Then he reached for the lube and slid down until he was curled between Jack's legs. Jack's dick bobbed, appreciating the proximity.

"Well, then. Just lay your head back and relax. I want to make this really good for you."

Jack complied, but he had to brush Daniel's shoulders with his fingers if he couldn't look at him. "As much as you always love it, I have no doubt of that. That it can be good."

"Oh, Jack. I could talk about it, I'd love to talk about it, but just now I'd rather do this." He had a huge smile in his voice, and that made Jack smile.

Jack shut his eyes and felt for Daniel's hair, because the next thing that happened was Daniel's wet mouth engulfing him. Daniel held his dick with one fist and gently, easily, went down on him, not licking him or doing that sucking swirling thing that drove Jack to the edge of coming almost immediately. He just set up an easy, slow rhythm that sent glittering waves of pleasure along Jack's skin.

Then Jack felt the stroking of Daniel's fingertip at his asshole. He shut his eyes a little tighter and cupped the side of Daniel's head. He planted his feet on the mattress and opened his knees wider.

Daniel slid his finger in, and Jack gasped. It was nothing like he'd felt before -- nothing like the harsh impersonal intrusion of an exam. Nothing like anything Jack could name. Nothing to compare it to. It was as if Daniel's touch created new nerve endings as it moved, slippery and firm, inside him.

Daniel moaned, and Jack realized that the things Daniel was doing to Jack's ass were making his dick harder. He knew that feeling, now, since Daniel, from the other side -- the bliss-out of having the cock in your mouth go from firm to rock-hard. It was a feedback loop of sensation, now. Knowing Daniel was getting pleasure from doing this to him.

Jack groaned, and he put his free hand over his eyes and rocked down into Daniel's touch, then up into his mouth. Smooth, and slick, and deep and strange. So good.

"More," he said, and Daniel, slowly, slowly, pulled his finger out and then pressed back in with two. That stretched Jack a little, and he could see, now, from this side, how this, in fact, went. It felt exotic, it felt really good, and it was starting to spark a wanting feeling, deep inside him -- a feeling he'd only vaguely had before now, a feeling Daniel had shouted to him more than once, but he got it now -- he could only describe it as a feeling of wanting to be fucked.

He squeezed Daniel's shoulders and rocked with him, letting the groans come out, not holding back. Daniel spread his fingers, opening Jack a little more.

"God," Jack said. It felt so right to open his legs, to spread them for Daniel like this. He'd never have imagined this -- wanting this. Never.

Daniel pulled out, slowly, slowly, and pulled his mouth away, too. Jack groaned and rubbed his butt down against the sheets and grabbed for his own dick. He met Daniel's eyes. Daniel was smoldering. He looked awake and hungry. He was smearing lots more lube on himself, and then putting another cool dollop on Jack.

Jack slowly stroke his dick, cocking his hips and opening his legs to give Daniel some room to work. "You make me want this, you know. _You_ do."

"Jack," Daniel whispered, making a caress of the name. And he moved in, hooking one of Jack's heels over his shoulder, and cradling Jack's other knee in the crook of his elbow.

Daniel said, "You know this -- but it's tightest right at first, right behind the opening." Daniel was looking down, balancing on his quads, lining them up, pressing the smooth thick head of his dick against Jack's asshole. It felt huge, but it was very slippery and Jack was already straining open, wanting to feel something inside again. Daniel, still holding himself, pressed in -- firmly, and the sting made Jack frown a little.

"Stay with me," Daniel said. "It helps a lot if you push, like you're squeezing something out. And give me the weight of your leg -- relax as much as you can. It's gonna hurt a little, but it helps if you can just let yourself feel it, feel where the muscles are so you can relax." He spoke rapidly, softly.

Jack nodded and realized he was biting his lip and so he stopped that. He let go of Daniel's arms and slid one hand under his hip. The stretch of Daniel pushing on his leg was good, and he thought about that, and not about the thick stinging push of Daniel's cock. Pushing, demanding, piercing.

God! Daniel was entering him, Daniel was inside. He was letting Daniel in -- Daniel. Daniel wanted this, wanted him. Like he'd been in Daniel. He remembered that so precisely -- the hot slick squeeze of getting inside Daniel, but it was like a foreign feeling now. It was like he wasn't even sure, just at the moment, where his dick was or if it was even involved in this.

"Push for me, Jack. Breathe for me; bear down."

It hurt, definitely. Jack tried squeezing, which made Daniel grunt, and Daniel was petting his calf, and Jack shifted and tried to feel it; tried to feel for the tight spots. It was like learning to wiggle his ears. It definitely hurt. He thought about taking a dump, which was just... wrong. But it helped him find the muscles Daniel was talking about.

He stopped worrying about whether it hurt or not and just accepted that it did. He squeezed again, and Daniel was still pushing in, gently, giving him something to move against. With a ripple and a surprised raise of his eyebrows, Jack found the right combination of relaxing and pushing and everything eased up at once, suddenly.

"God," Daniel blurted, and Jack felt him shift, catching his balance on his knees, and he let go of his own dick and pushed again. The slide was smooth now -- not cruelly tight; not the stinging, sharp stretch. Jack had gotten with the program, it seemed. Jack had let him in.

Daniel was moving his legs, holding both Jack's legs in his elbows now. He was balanced on his knees, just using his hips to press in. In, and then out a little, and then in further, and Jesus, that was sweet. It stung, yeah, but that was getting less and less and it was good -- this deep feeling, this feeling of opening, of being touched so intimately, of being taken.

Jack remembered where his dick was, all of a sudden, and put one hand on top of it and groped for Daniel's arm with the other.

"It's good," he murmured, staring at Daniel's face. Daniel looked a little worried, yet amazed.

"You're so fucking tight," Daniel said, and it looked like he was trying to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head. Jack knew that feeling. He pushed again, experimenting, now that he could feel it -- at least two sets of muscles there.

"Oh fucking Christ," Daniel said, and at the same time, something _gave_, inside Jack and there was a new, overwhelming spangle of sensation and Jack had to close his eyes.

Daniel was muttering, cursing, it sounded like, and he was gently pushing, now, all the way in, slowly, and halfway out.

"It's good, baby," Jack said, more moan than statement. "It's so good." Daniel was holding him up, giving it to him -- not pounding, nothing harsh or fast, but spearing him, creating that spangling rush, with every stroke. Jack's dick was getting harder and harder in his hand.

"That's it," Jack said. "That's it." He could open his eyes, again, because he wanted to see this. He wanted to _watch Daniel fuck him_.

Shocking, impossible, dirty, wonderful. Daniel was fucking him and Jack was enjoying it. Wanting it.

"I guess it really is true," Daniel said, and he was breathless, speaking in short phrases, timed with his thrusts, "what they say, about the guys in the Navy."

"It's all fucking true, baby," Jack said, laughing, and squeezing and making Daniel swear again. "It's all true."

It all got confused and fast and overwhelming then, and Jack was saying "baby," over and over, and squeezing the head of his dick, and Daniel was huge and hard and slick inside him, and then Jack was coming, a shivering, devastating fall. It felt like he was turning inside out; his orgasm started in his ass and spread forward -- so entirely backwards, so intense, so strange -- and Daniel was following him, right over the edge. Daniel swelled inside him. Jack felt it.

Jack was panting, his come sticky and pooling on his stomach. He moved his hand slowly around the head of his still hard dick. Daniel was inside him. Daniel was leaning over him, his face hidden.

Jack lifted his legs and wrapped them around Daniel's waist, freeing Daniel's arms. Daniel leaned carefully forward, still inside, and rested against Jack's shoulder and chest. Jack pulled his hand free and put both his arms around Daniel.

"Oh my god," Daniel said.

"Yeah," Jack said.

They hovered there like that for a bit, and then Jack said, "I think we'd better get in the shower," and Daniel said, "I think you're right."

Daniel lurched back up on his fists, and watched as he pulled free from Jack's body. Losing that tight, straining fullness felt strange. Daniel pulled out, slowly, carefully. Jack felt empty, and loose, and somehow cold.

Daniel looked up, still with that gaze of mystified amazement, and Jack said, "I see why you wanted that. I get it now."

"Did I hurt you?" Daniel wanted to know.

"Only at first. Just like you said."

And Daniel leaned in and smoothed his hair and kissed him, and they both scrambled up and headed for the shower.

Jack felt -- awkward. Sore.

They waited for the hot water in the bright white bathroom, leaning over the tub, looking at each other. Daniel had his fingers under the water. They didn't say anything, but Jack felt no need to. He ran his fingers lightly down Daniel's arm.

The water got hot. They stepped over the lip of the big clawfoot tub, and pulled the curtains around. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to hold each other close under the soothing, soft fall of water.

After a while, Daniel groped for the soap without letting go of Jack, and starting washing his back. Jack let his head rest on Daniel's shoulder. He was starting to get really, really sleepy. He said, "You know something? The first time I did you, that first time we went to bed? You broke me in for that, too."

Daniel laughed and grabbed at him, shaking him and hugging him at the same time. Jack had to open his eyes quickly and grab the cold water pipe.

Daniel leaned back and looked into his eyes. "You're going to find this hilarious, then. I'd never done it before either."

Jack grabbed him and kissed him breathless. "Aren't we a coupla amateurs."

"Beginners' luck, wouldn't you say?"

Laughing, Jack held him tight and put his face in Daniel's neck. He couldn't hold on tight enough; he couldn't get close enough.

After a while, Daniel started washing him again, lingering lovingly over his loose and tender asshole, and then Jack washed Daniel, and he would have blown him right there in the shower, on his knees under the water, but they ran out of hot water right about then.

So Jack had to blow him in bed. It was beautiful, kneeling over him, watching him, feeling him push, so round, so thick, so big, into Jack's mouth. Tasting his come. Daniel put his elbow over his eyes after he was done groaning and thrashing.

Jack rested his cheek on Daniel's stomach for a bit.

Jack said, "I hate to do this, this time, but I've got to go tonight. We have to fly back to the base in Florida, first thing tomorrow. I've got to ask you to drive me back to the hotel."

"Shit."

"I know, Daniel. I'm sorry."

Daniel heaved up and sat and looked at him. Jack leaned on an elbow and looked back.

Daniel said, "I'm so, so glad you came over."

"I am, too," Jack said, and it was so far short of what he wanted to say that he didn't know what to do. He just eased forward and hugged Daniel, tight. Then he got up and started putting on his clothes. His watch said it was after three.

Daniel sighed behind him, and when Jack looked around, he was dressed, too. Daniel looked at him with narrowed eyes, and stepped in and put a hand to his cheek and kissed him.

Daniel said, "Have I told you lately that I'm really glad you're on board for the kissing thing?"

Jack just smiled. He found his shoes, and sat on the sofa to put them on.

~~~~

Daniel killed the engine of the Pontiac, parked at the curb at the corner. Jack's hotel was in the middle of the block. The night was cool and silent around them. Daniel turned to him, and, holding Jack's gaze, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. Jack, puzzled, put out his palm, and closed it around the sharp edges of the metal.

"I don't know that you'd need this, because I can't imagine that I'd be gone, but I want you to know, whenever you want to come, whenever you get time. Please. You're... you're welcome. I want you to..." Daniel looked away and cleared his throat. "I want you to make yourself at home."

Jack squeezed the key in his fist, feeling its outline in his palm, sharp and real. "Thank you," he said. They sat there, looking at each other. Jack could still feel Daniel inside him. He could still feel it.

Jack said, "You know I want to kiss you right now."

Daniel grinned at him, the surprised, intelligent grin. "You do? That's nice." He turned his head, and looked through the windshield. Jack reached over and touched Daniel's knee. Then he turned and opened the door and got out of the car.

He couldn't see Daniel's head, but he stood there and lit a Camel and waited for Daniel to drive away. He didn't walk toward the hotel. He waited for Daniel to go first. The Pontiac's engine caught, thrummed, and Daniel put the car in gear, pulled away from the curb, and drove away. Jack put his hand in his pocket, to feel the key again. Another cigarette. Definitely.


	6. Chapter 6

**January 1958**

Daniel moaned into his mouth, and Daniel's hands tightened on Jack's shoulders. Jack loved this -- that Daniel would still want the kissing, the closeness, even after they'd both come so hard that Jack was sore, like a tiny muscle cramp, there inside. They lay there, on their sides, all that skin pressed together, kissing. It was slow and wet and hot, and if they kept it up it would get Jack's motor running again. Which was great. Daniel slid his knee between Jack's legs.

 

The phone in Daniel's study rang. They kept kissing. Jack felt Daniel frown, but he didn't stop, and it wasn't Jack's phone, so Jack didn't stop either. The phone rang and rang and Jack couldn't help counting. The silence after the tenth and last ring was very loud.

Daniel pulled back. "It's one in the morning," he said. Jack raised his eyebrows, receptive. "Who is calling me at one in the morning?" Jack shook his head. In his experience, when calls came at that sort of hour, it was never good news. Daniel rolled his eyes and grabbed Jack's nape and pushed in for some more kissing. Jack was happy to comply.

But in about five minutes, just as Jack was thinking maybe round two, maybe Daniel would want Jack on top, now that they'd gotten their first, needy "missing you" orgasms out of the way, the phone started ringing again.

"Hell and damnation," Daniel said, and he jerked from Jack's embrace and got up and stalked down the hall into the study. He went stark naked. He didn't even pause to grab his robe from the hook on the closet door.

Jack lay there, frowning. Daniel's mother was dead. His father'd been out of the picture since Daniel was a small child. Jack was pretty sure there were no sisters or brothers. What was this about?

"Daniel Jackson." Then silence. Then, Daniel said, "Yes, of course," and his voice had that serious, solemn, "someone has died" note to it. Then after a moment, "I understand," and then more silence. So much silence that Jack got up and found his cigarettes and went to the far window and opened it and lit up, kneeling, leaning out over the sill.

A dog barked. A more distant dog answered. There was a yellow glow from the streetlight. The cold air felt nice on his face. Clouds had come in with the front late in the afternoon. He'd noticed them piling up, as he drove. It would most likely rain before morning. In the study, Daniel was quiet. Then he said, "Just a minute," and Jack heard him close the study door. That made him frown again. He could hear Daniel's voice, earnest and rapid, but not the words.

He didn't let himself wonder what it was that Daniel could be talking about that he didn't want Jack to hear. After all, there were plenty of things about Daniel's life that were none of Jack's damn business. There were great, grand swaths of his job, his friends, his day-to-day, that Jack knew literally nothing about. And he had absolutely no right, no right at all, to resent that or to want to know. It'd been just since early summer that they'd been hooking up, after all. And when they were together, they had so little time, and they spent a lot of it in bed. Jack had barely gotten Daniel talking, so far, about his work at Memphis State, about his research, about his trips to Egypt. And, honestly, when they did talk, it wasn't usually about their personal business at all, but about music or politics or history. So, there was so much he still didn't know, couldn't know. Despite how close they had gotten. Though Jack did know a lot of really cool stuff. Like how Daniel's face looked when he had Jack's dick in his mouth, when he was kneeling between Jack's knees. Like how two days' growth of his soft beard felt, rubbing against Jack's shoulder. Like how sweet it felt to sink inside him, curving his fingers against Daniel's gorgeous ass. Jack smiled and smoked, touching himself with his free hand as he knelt by the window. This was the longest stretch of time yet that he was going to spend in Memphis since he'd left for Pensacola, and he was really going to enjoy the next few days. It felt so good to have time, for once. And they were going to get the New Year off to a great start.

Jack finished his cigarette, and then went and pissed and washed his hands and lay back down in the bed. He heard the study door open as he got himself settled.

"You're not going to believe this," Daniel said.

"What?"

"There's been an ... international incident." He smiled at the cliche. "They -- the government -- actually needs me to work, first thing in the morning."

"Shit," Jack said.

Daniel sat down on the side of the bed, rubbing his face. "Literally report for duty.... This is just so unfair."

"What do they need you to do?"

Daniel sighed and looked at him, traced his cheek, ran his fingers over Jack's neck and down his arm. He let his hand drop. He got a thinking look, an evaluating look.

"Well, my main areas of expertise are linguistics and archaeology, as you know."

"Yeah?"

Daniel met his eyes. "But sometimes the government needs me for cryptography. Codebreaking. Or code writing."

"No shit."

"No shit." Daniel looked into the distance. "It's not really a lot of fun, but hey. Patriotic duty, world safe for democracy, you know the drill." He patted Jack's arm.

"Yes," Jack said. "That I do. So, what language? Russian? Chinese? Hungarian? Turkish?" Those were the hot spots Jack could rattle off, just off the top of his head. He read the papers. And he knew there were more. Had to be. Including some obscure possibilities Jack wasn't even aware of, ones that didn't make the news. After Korea, nothing surprised him.

Daniel smiled and shook his head. "This is the part where I say I wish I could tell you and you nod understandingly."

"Yeah, okay," Jack said, and pulled him down and kissed him. No surprise, there, either. Jack remembered the maps he'd seen in the study, the first time he'd visited. Sometime later, after he'd pointed them out, Daniel had taken them down and replaced them with detailed maps of the Valley of Kings. "We do have a little more time before 'first thing in the morning' though, don't we?"

Daniel propped himself up on his elbows and regarded Jack with great seriousness.

"I'm really so sorry," he said. "You finally get some real leave, you even got Christmas off, finally; you got to go home, and then you chose to spend part of your time off with me, which is so, just so...." Daniel looked away for a minute and then he met Jack's eyes again. "You have a whole week this time, to spend here, and now _I_ have to go. It's just too ironic. I don't know whether to laugh or cry."

"It's okay, really," Jack said, and leaned up and kissed him, a soft swipe of his lips, a press in with his tongue, and then he put his head back on the pillow. It wasn't okay, of course, but there was no point in complaining about it. It was the government. He hadn't realized until tonight, despite their almost-conversation early on about Daniel's past intelligence work, that it was still possible for Daniel to be as much at the government's beck and call as he was, but he really did get it. He thumbed at Daniel's biceps. "You know I understand about Uncle Sam."

Daniel sighed, and he leaned down and kissed Jack. Thoroughly, deeply, wetly. "I guess you're right and we'd better take advantage of what night we've got left. Because I can sleep on the plane. You can sleep in, after I go, if you want." Daniel kissed him again and smiled into his eyes. "You can lock the place up for me when you leave."

Jack grinned and held his head, loving the delight he felt behind Daniel's words. Loving it that it meant something to Daniel, to have given Jack the key to this house. Because for Jack, it certainly meant something. The fact that he had Daniel's key was like a secret password. Jack got a tingle every time he pulled out his fob to drive somewhere in the Fairlane and caught sight of it. It looked just like an ordinary brass Yale key to anyone else, but Jack knew better. It contained magic. It contained ... this. They grinned at each other until Jack just had to kiss him again.

"You going to Washington?" Jack said, between kisses. "Or overseas?"

"Washington," Daniel breathed, and then they didn't talk.

Jack didn't fuck him, but he did get a stupendous while of blowing Daniel, and then they kissed and kissed and kissed, very distracted by the intense closeness, the face-to-face-ness of that, and ended up bringing each other off with their hands again. That was another cool thing he knew about Daniel -- the dreamy look Daniel got when he came for the second time in one night. The first time Daniel would get off, each trip Jack had made here, Daniel would look intense and needy, like he'd been waiting forever to feel it. Which was kind of how Jack always felt about it. The second time, Daniel's face would relax, and then he would scrunch up his eyes and his mouth would fall open a little. It was a beautiful thing to see -- Daniel, coming.

Jack was dozing, Daniel's soft cock still nestled in his hand, when the phone started ringing again.

"Argh," Daniel screamed, getting vertical extremely fast. Gee. Jack had heard about people tearing their hair as a metaphor, as a joke, but he didn't think he'd ever really seen it actually happen before. Daniel kicked the coverlet, which had fallen to the floor a while back, and disappeared. This time when he answered the phone, he said a curt, "Yes?"

Then: "You're kidding.... You're kidding me.... Well, yes, but, didn't you say the Director wanted.... I know..... But that.... Wait a minute. Wait... I might be able to... Can I call you back in sixty seconds? ... Give me the number again; I don't have my book here.... Got it. Call you right back." Daniel hung up the phone, and there was quiet for a moment.

Then Daniel came back, walking more slowly, and leaned in the bedroom doorway. His lips were pursed. He looked cautious, yet smug.

"Can you fly a T-34?" he asked Jack.

Jack frowned, his hands linked behind his head as he lay on the bed. "Is the Pope Catholic?"

Daniel looked aside. He knocked, gently, on the door jamb a couple of times and he exhaled. He was still naked, but he didn't seem to notice or care. Jack tried not to let that distract him. He met Jack's eyes. "Want to fly me to Washington in the morning?"

Jack moved his hands to his sides and sat up quickly. "What?"

"The pilot from Millington they were trying to get to take me, has peritonitis. They can't seem to come up with someone else on such short notice, but they don't want me to wait for a commercial flight, either."

Jack frowned. He mentally ran down the ramifications, the permissions. "Sure, I could do it okay. I'm officially on leave until Saturday, but...."

"I know," Daniel said. "I thought of that. Why are you here? Why do I know you? All that."

"They'd have to call Pensacola; clear it with my OIC."

Daniel bit his lip and nodded. "Maybe it's a bad idea."

"Hey, if it's that urgent, Doctor Jackson." Daniel glanced at him. He knew what Jack meant, using his title like that, even though Jack had put a flippant tone in the words. Daniel didn't smile. Jack felt a little dislocated. In this room, they were just two guys, two guys getting close, being together, just feeling things, enjoying each other. Now the outside world, their "other" identities, were intruding again.

"It's pretty urgent," Daniel said, staring into space. Jack watched him think. He came back to the here and now, abruptly, meeting Jack's eyes and folding his arms. "Look. We don't talk about this much, but I know you have more to lose here than I do. It's true that I could get fired from Memphis State, but hey. I've been fired before. I've lived abroad, I've lived in New York. I can always find some work to do somewhere. And I have no family to embarrass. And I have my own place, here. It's mine, free and clear. So there's not a lot that could really be taken away from me. You, on the other hand... If someone in the Navy, or the government, were to find out about us...."

Jack got up and went to him and put his arms around him. The touch of all that skin was a full-body, instant caress. It made Jack close his eyes. He put his cheek against Daniel's cheek. What was life, if not an adventure? Plus, here was an engraved invitation to find out more about Daniel. To be, just for a day, just for a while, part of _his_ life. His work. And, of course, it was an invitation to show off a little. Jack had, after all, been the best instructor on the Mentors that Millington ever had. He had the certificates to prove it. But he wasn't going to say that out loud, of course. He had more class than that.

He said, thoughtfully, his cheek still against Daniel's, his hands skimming Daniel's spine, "I kinda miss those Beechcrafts. That's a solid old bird, there. Good one to have under you. Reliable. Fast, too."

"Jaack."

Jack took him by the shoulders and spoke emphatically. "There is nothing wrong with me being back in town for the Charlie Parker festival. There is nothing wrong with us being buddies. There is nothing wrong with us meeting on Beale Street last spring. We're both jazz fans. Right?"

Daniel was starting to smile. He rested his palm on Jack's chest. "If you say so." They looked at each other for a moment. Jack didn't let go. He liked the feel of Daniel's shoulder muscles, rounding into his grip.

"Who are you talking to, there? Can you tell me that?"

Daniel traced the curve of Jack's pec with his thumb. "Major Davis. Paul Davis. He's Air Force, and he's the liaison with the NSA. I've known him since Korea." Daniel met his eyes again, his tongue caught between his lips. Jack smiled.

"Well, tell Major Davis that if he can clear this with Commander Holly, you've got yourself a ride."

~~~~

It was cold. It would be a while before the heater in the Mentor warmed up the cockpit, but even then, Jack knew, his feet would be cold the whole flight. That was a quirk of this plane.

"Don't take your gloves off, Daniel," he said, an aside, as he checked his switches, his fuel, his gauges -- all in order, all serene.

"Whatever you say, Lieutenant," Daniel answered, and his voice was so warm. It went right to Jack's dick.

What a treat this was. Jack hadn't realized how much he would enjoy this -- doing this for Daniel. Showing Daniel this. This particular flight, he wouldn't be doing anything fancy, but even at its most routine, flying was a challenge, a risk, a rush. There was nothing he loved better in the world. Well, out of bed, that is.

"They're going to put us down at Bolling," Jack said, an aside from his final exchange of instructions and verifications with the tower.

"Sounds good," Daniel said. He sounded distracted. "Convenient."

This would be fun.

The tower cleared them to taxi. Dawn was just brushing the horizon. The rain had moved on to the east, and the clouds were low, with no wind. This would be easy as pie. Jack smiled as the props roared into motion, and he settled his hand on the throttle.

"Remember--" Jack started, but Daniel cut in.

"I know, Lieutenant. _Don't touch anything._"

"Here we go," Jack said, grinning. He had to imagine Daniel's smile, but that was easy, too. He was very good at imagining how Daniel looked, at remembering the expressions that went with each of his moods. Jack pointed the nose of the Beechcraft east, easing down the runway to meet the dawn.

~~~~

_Hurry up and wait,_ Jack thought, setting his duffel on the tarmac, watching the ground crew scurry around the Mentor. No idea, now, if this would be the plane they'd return in to Memphis, on some unknown future day this week, or if Daniel would get called away overseas, or what, exactly would happen. No idea of anything, really, except that the next few hours were going to be boring.

But he was used to that. Give him something half decent for dinner, a pack of cigarettes, and a baseball game to watch, or a pickup poker game, and he would be set. Life in the Navy in wartime was more wait than hurry up, although the times of "hurry up" were very intense indeed. But anyone who spent time in any branch of the military got very good at doing nothing for long periods of time. It was why the officers' club at Pensacola was always so brilliantly whitewashed, despite the driving winter rains and the biting salt air. It was why every carrier Jack had ever landed on was so bright and shiny, it hurt your eyes.

He checked that he was standing outside the DANGER line that marked the refueling area, and unzipped his short leather jacket far enough to reach his Camels and his lighter. They were going to put the T-34 inside for the night, it looked like.

Their plane been met, after they'd landed at Bolling field, by Major Davis, who had thanked Jack civilly enough, but who was clearly not really seeing him, his mind fixed on whatever problem had brought Daniel here. He'd pulled Daniel aside for a quick conversation, and would have bundled him right into the waiting car and driven him off, but Daniel had stepped away and walked back to Jack.

"It's actually worse than I thought," Daniel said. "They'll put me in a hotel somewhere, eventually, but I may end up working into the night. I don't..."

"Officer's Club. Here. Call me," Jack had said, calmly, his hands in his pockets.

"You'll wait?" Daniel said, seeming incredulous. He looked like someone else, in his dark hat, his long wool coat. He looked important and distant. But his face, all scrunched up and puzzled, was reassuring and familiar and boyish.

"I'm on leave. Sure I'll wait."

Daniel nodded, once, and turned back to Davis, and they had gone.

It was starting to rain. Jack looked up at the white, eerily lit clouds, and finished his cigarette. Then, in no hurry, he strolled off, in search of someone to steer him to shelter. He got directions to the club from the secretary in the front office of the next hangar over, and then he hitched a ride there, since it was clear across the airfield, with a mechanic who had overheard the conversation.

As he was opening the front door of the club, he realized this might be kind of a trick, getting in. He had no written orders, he was out of uniform, and his Illinois driver's license wasn't going to be any proof that he was who he said he was.

Luckily the doorman was willing to listen to his tale, but the real lucky break was when he noticed the framed publicity photos behind the bar, of both his own squad and the new Air Force guys -- the Thunderbirds. That worked like a charm.

Four hours later, a fried chicken dinner settling comfortably in his belly, he had switched from beer to coffee and was playing five-card draw for cigarettes in the lounge with two pilots, a maintenance manager, and a guy in an Air Force major's uniform who wouldn't say what he did but was the best bluffer among them.

Jack had folded his inside straight and was watching the mystery guy, Simmons, intimidate the remaining player into folding, when he heard his name. He looked over his shoulder. It was Major Davis. Jack got up.

Davis accepted Jack's salute. "Doctor Jackson said this was where I'd find you."

"Here I am," Jack said, smiling his "charm the audience" smile. But he meant it, as well as the warmth in his words. If Daniel had sent this guy back, late at night, in the rain, to collect Jack and drop him off somewhere, Jack truly, honestly, was grateful and wanted to show it. If Jack had expected anything, he'd been expecting nothing more than a phone call and directions on where to pick up a cab.

Davis was exchanging quiet greetings with a couple of the guys he apparently knew who were sitting nearby, and the other poker players took Davis' entrance as a break, and went over to the bar. Only Simmons remained, leaning back in his chair, tilting two of its legs off the floor, and smoking a cigarette he'd won off Jack earlier.

"Oh, is this Daniel Jackson's newest lap dog, then?"

Davis glared at him. "This, Major Simmons, is the pilot who was kind enough to give Doctor Jackson a lift in from Memphis this morning, on very short notice."

Jack looked from Davis to Simmons and back. The guys he'd just met knew he was Navy, knew where he was assigned, but he'd been carefully vague about what he was doing in the capital, and he had not mentioned Daniel's name at all. He looked more carefully at Simmons, at his decorations, seeking clues. Daniel might need to know about this, if he didn't already.

Simmons looked up at Jack, still leaning back in his chair. "Oh, we've met," he said, almost sneering, but not quite. "He has a weakness for straights with face cards, and he rarely draws to club flushes."

Jack put his hands in his pockets and said to Simmons, "Clearly, sir, you've learned everything important about me that there is to know."

"Oh, I doubt that very much," Simmons said, and he blew smoke at the ceiling.

"If you'll excuse us, Major," Davis said, his voice cold, and drew Jack out of the lounge and into the dining room.

He didn't exactly roll his eyes at Simmons, but he was definitely tugging hard at Jack's arm and putting as much distance between them and the major as possible. "Daniel has been assigned a hotel, and it looks as if they're going to wrap up their work before midnight after all, so he asked me to come and either see about your travel arrangements, or inquire whether you intended to stay in Washington tonight."

Davis didn't look at Jack, but let go of his arm and kept walking, up to the cold buffet that the staff set out after the kitchen was closed. "And if you have no objection, I'd like to get a bite to eat here. Kind of a late dinner." He looked at Jack then, holding a tray in his hands. His expression was neutral. Jack couldn't tell how close this man was to Daniel, how much he knew, how much he guessed.

"I'm in no hurry, sir," Jack said, walking to the coffee urn. "Dinner's always good." On general principles, just to keep Davis company, he grabbed a slice of cherry pie and put it on a tray. They sat at a table. The dining room was empty, and the lounge was much quieter than it had been when Jack arrived.

Davis ate quickly and neatly. He didn't make conversation. Jack enjoyed his pie and thought about the flight over, the strangeness of being in a prop plane after months of flying jets. He didn't want to ask any questions, perhaps say the wrong thing. He wanted Davis to show him the way. But Davis was silent.

Jack finished his pie and sipped at his coffee and gave up waiting. He'd have to go first. It occurred to him that maybe Davis was in the same fix he was. He said, "I was on leave, you know, from my assignment in Florida. I'd come back to Memphis for that jazz concert--"

"The Charlie Parker Memorial; I know." Davis smiled at him.

Jack nodded. It was a clue; so Daniel had told him something. "I was happy to help out. Daniel didn't say much, of course, but it sounded like this assignment was pretty important."

"That's an understatement," Davis said, looking at his empty plate. He looked at Jack. He seemed more relaxed. "I'm assuming you're coming downtown with me? To the hotel?"

"That's very kind of you, to come out late at night, all this way, to be my chauffeur."

Davis looked serious. "Daniel's a friend." He looked as if he was going to say something else, but he didn't. "I'm done here, if you--" and he sketched a gesture toward the door.

"Let me get my duffel," Jack said. He'd left it against the wall of the lounge. He paused at the bar to buy another pack of Camels, since Simmons had won a bunch of his, and he noticed Simmons was still there, standing by the far wall, staring at him. He stared back, nodded, and left.

Outside, it was raining hard. He and Davis dashed down the sidewalk to the car.

"Really, thanks again, for coming all the way out here," Jack said when he was in the passenger seat and brushing drops from his sleeves. Davis took them out of the base and onto the river road, heading toward the center of D.C. Jack looked around curiously as they drove. This was a part of Washington he'd never seen before.

"No, thank you, for being willing to bring Daniel to us on such short notice. It was a lucky break for us."

"I guess Holly was okay with it, sir?"

"Yeah, kind of puzzled, but okay. He said as long as you didn't do anything stupid, he was fine with you doing a favor for another branch."

"Good."

"We've got you through the week, then, if we need you."

"Is that so," Jack said.

"You'll probably be flying Daniel home again in a couple of days."

"He works that fast, huh."

"It's looking that way." And Davis was quiet then, his mind most likely on the project, whatever it was, that had called Daniel here. He didn't say anything else, except, as he turned onto Constitution Avenue, he remarked, "You can smoke, if you want to." And Jack gratefully did.

Finally, Davis pulled up at an old rambling hotel on a wide boulevard in what was clearly the original, elegantly designed part of the capital.

"If I don't see you again, thanks," Jack said, leaning in.

"The pleasure was mine," Davis said, formal, reserved once again, and Jack closed the door, and Davis drove away with no further hints.

Jack went into the quiet lobby. It was after eleven, but there was an alert clerk behind the desk, and a uniformed bellman by the elevators.

He licked his lips and rolled the dice.

"Key for Daniel Jackson?" he said, and the clerk said, "Of course, sir" and searched his pigeonholes and then handed over the key. Just like that.

Jack waved off the bellman, feeling guilty of depriving the guy of his tip, and took the elevator up to eight and let himself in the room. It was empty. It was big, and it had two double beds, and an attached bath. Sweet.

Jack was showered and scrubbed, and had fallen asleep with the television on, sprawled in his boxers, when he was awakened by a hand on his shoulder and a smile he'd have traveled a lot farther than 600 miles to see.

"You stayed," Daniel breathed, and kissed him. He tasted of coffee and something sour that Jack eventually, as the kiss went on, identified as pencil eraser.

Jack pulled him down, smiling, Daniel's suitcoat buttons digging into his stomach, until they paused for breath and looked at each other.

"This is really strange," Daniel said.

"Tell me about it," Jack said.

"I would kill for a turn in that hot water."

"That can be arranged," Jack said, and he smiled, and his smile was crafty.

"And I might need someone to wash my back," Daniel said, matching Jack's smile, and he leaned in and nipped at Jack's neck.

"That can be arranged, too," Jack said. Daniel stood up and started shedding clothes. He dropped his suit jacket and his tie on the floor, and then realized what he was doing and bent to pick them up again, along with his topcoat, and hang them up in the little closet. He'd rolled his cuffs up at some point in the evening, and they were smeared with ink or pencil lead. One of his suspender buttons had come loose. His shirt was wrinkled. He looked grimy and tired and he had dark circles under his eyes. Jack got up and picked up his hat for him. Daniel had dropped it just inside the room door. He watched Daniel get naked, and watching brought his dick up. Last of all, Daniel folded his glasses and put them on the dresser, and stabbed Jack with a hot blue stare and went into the bathroom. Jack peeled out of his boxers and made sure the room was locked and followed him.

Daniel was leaning into the shower enclosure, but the water was hot immediately and so he stepped in, Jack right behind him. Jack took hold of his shoulders and turned him so that the hot water hit his neck and back, and put his arms around Daniel, kneading his shoulders. The muscles were tight. Daniel moaned and dropped his head against Jack's, trying to relax.

Jack said, "Did you get some dinner? Because Davis didn't."

"They brought in something. Some sandwiches. God, that feels good."

"Thanks for sending Davis."

"Thanks for staying. I thought you might've hitched something back to Florida, or back to your car." Jack's Fairlane was, at that moment, still parked behind Daniel's Sky Chief, back at the Ballard place in Memphis. Jack had left Chicago, where he'd spent Christmas with his mother, to drive down to see Daniel, almost 36 hours ago. It felt like a week had gone by.

"I said I'd wait for you to call."

"I know, but...."

Jack waited, digging his thumbs into the tenseness over Daniel's shoulder blades, but Daniel didn't finish the sentence. He just started nuzzling Jack's cheek and neck. He seemed to have lost, or abandoned, that train of thought.

"No fair," Daniel said. "You got to shave again already."

"You can in a minute."

"Mm," Daniel said, and kissed him, long and lingering, still tasting of burned coffee and rubber. His hands crept down, to grip Jack's ass and pull him close. "This is much better than what I was doing two hours ago," Daniel said.

"You weren't drawing to an inside straight, were you?" Jack said, and made Daniel laugh.

"Yeah, it was just about that futile for a while. But I made a lot of progress. Much more than they expected, actually."

"Well, this is you we're talking about, isn't it? You on the job is a guarantee of success," Jack said gallantly, and reached for the soap. Daniel pulled back to look at him, and his face held a mixture of amazement and abashment.

"What a really sweet thing to say."

Jack gave him the "who, me?" expression, swiping the soap over his back, turning them a little so that the foam wouldn't wash away before he had a chance to rub it over Daniel's skin. Which he did, pressing the slick tense muscles, digging in with his thumbs, making Daniel moan again and lean on him. He could feel Daniel's erection bumping his own.

Daniel went on, "We made so much progress, actually, that they are going to take what I did and send it off and wait for an answer." He straightened and cupped Jack's cheek. He looked happy, and sleepy. The dark circles were easing. "In fact, I've been told to get some sleep and some breakfast and stand by here. They might need me tomorrow, and they might not."

Jack grinned. "Sleep in? Oh, Doctor Jackson. You'll be so bored, stuck here in this old hotel with nothing on TV and no books to read."

"I know. Such a shame," Daniel said, and kissed him, slowly, thoughtfully. Jack's hands stuttered on his back when Daniel pushed his tongue into Jack's mouth. After a while, Daniel said, "I think I'm reviving."

"Certain parts of you certainly are."

Daniel found the soap and quickly scrubbed under his own arms, and around his neck. Then Jack took the soap away and moved it down his body as Daniel leaned on the tile. It was so tempting to kneel and to lick Daniel's freshly rinsed dick and then ease it into his mouth, as he started to wash Daniel's legs. So he did. Jack closed his eyes and tasted and sucked and realized he'd failed entirely to finish washing Daniel's knees and calfs. He hung on to the soap with one hand and cupped Daniel's dripping balls with the other. Daniel was hard on his tongue. He was starting to leak, the fluid warmer than the water.

Daniel moaned, then growled, then got hold of Jack under the armpits and hauled him up and kissed him fiercely.

He took the soap away and finished washing himself, quickly, efficiently. He said, "Get back to bed," and Jack smiled at him and went. He listened to Daniel finish rinsing, then toweling off and quickly shaving, from the bed. It felt really good to lie down after all the sitting he'd done today. He closed his eyes and scratched his stomach. He didn't wait long. Daniel came to him, turning off lights as he came, and turned the covers down to Jack's knees, kneeling over Jack and running firm hands over his body, just looking at him. They smiled at each other. Jack stretched. "You know, it's awfully late. Why don't we just go to sleep. We don't have to do anything tonight, dear."

Daniel grinned at him, and they both laughed. Then Daniel's face was abruptly serious. His hands never stopped smoothing Jack's skin, but they moved in smaller patterns, finally focusing in on Jack's dick, which had come back to fully hard when Daniel knelt over him. Daniel looked so thoughtful. He touched Jack for a little, just fingertips, barely skimming, and then he scooted down Jack's legs and bent and took Jack into his mouth.

Jack had to clench his jaw to keep from moaning, loudly. Daniel's tongue was hot velvet. Jack had gotten really good at this since the spring, and was happy to make Daniel happy by doing this to him. Often. Intently. But Daniel. Daniel had a gift. Jack closed his eyes and rocked his hips, just a little, and Daniel purred, quietly. Jack had learned that Daniel liked that -- like feeling Jack push into his mouth, as if Jack were gently fucking him. Daniel could get him so deep, too -- deeper than he'd yet managed comfortably. He'd have to get Daniel to give him lessons. He always thought that, and then he always got distracted and never asked.

This gentle fucking of Daniel's mouth made Jack think of fucking his ass, gently and not so gently. Jack stopped a moan in the back of his throat and moved his hands jerkily over Daniel's damp hair. Jack, after his nap, was restless after his long day of easy flying and pointless waiting. He was quite awake now, and as delicious as this was, he realized that he really, really wanted to get on top. To have Daniel that way; to move inside him. Sure, they'd have to be quiet, but that was what he wanted. To fuck Daniel.

And wonder of wonders -- here was someone he could simply ask for what he wanted.

A little white light from the sidewalk below was coming through the thin window blind, washing the color from Daniel's skin, but Jack could see clearly. He lifted his head, stroked Daniel's cheek, the swell of his lip where it was pressed around him. So hot. God.

"Baby," he murmured. "Danny."

Daniel lifted his mouth, but replaced it with his hand. Jack was very slick from his spit, and the change in the friction felt wonderful. He looked satisfied, and questioning. Jack stroked his cheek.

"Will you ..." All the words he could say suddenly sounded coarse. He didn't know quite how to put this. He knew the words, but they didn't quite work. He whispered. "I want to be on top now, if you want that. If you want it like that."

Daniel smiled, and let go of Jack and turned and stretched out to lie on his stomach, his head on his arms.

"Did I see some hand lotion on the sink in there?" Daniel said. "Because..."

But Jack had leaned over the far side of the bed to scoop their lube from home out of his duffel. He'd packed it. Just in case.

"Once again," Daniel said, snuggling deeper into the covers, "you've thought of everything."

Jack rolled against him, loving, as he always did, to see the curve of Daniel's ass and his back and thighs in the dim light. He gently slid his slicked fingers along the crease, finding the opening and pushing right in.

He loved it that Daniel loved this so much. Daniel writhed and pushed gently back against his hand.

This was strange -- having sex in a new place, the dislocation of their work responsibilities intruding on their affair, the increased need for secrecy, the need for quiet. It made everything seem fresher and sharper, even though it was always fresh, being with Daniel, every time. Like a good surprise. Jack felt he hadn't come close to wearing the "new" off of what they'd been doing these months at the Memphis house.

It was strange tonight, though -- because Jack had learned that Daniel made a lot of noise in bed, and now he had to be so quiet. This made Jack notice, even more carefully than was his habit, how Daniel moved -- Jack had to take his cues from the gentle shove and quiver of Daniel's hips against his hand, in the absence of Daniel's velvety bed-voice.

Soon he was sure that Daniel was ready for him, and Jack was already more than ready. The feel of Daniel's smooth channel around his fingers always made him hard enough to chip rock, as soon as he pressed the first finger inside.

He moved, and as if choreographed, Daniel moved when he did. Their thighs slid together, and Daniel lifted up, and Jack eased over him, and pushed smoothly in. Jack gasped. It was easy and slow and intense, no waiting at all, and he, open-mouthed, making little inarticulate grunts of pleasure, pulled on Daniel's hips, bringing him to his knees and elbows. Jack was almost vertical now, spreading Daniel's knees with his own, and he so liked fucking Daniel this way because he loved watching himself disappear into Daniel with each stroke. He watched until he had to close his eyes because the pleasure was so intense, watched until he had to hang on tight and close his eyes and concentrate on not crying out. He couldn't last. He couldn't hold on very long. It was too good, too smooth, too tight.

He squeezed Daniel's hips, trying to warn him. Daniel rocked against him, egging him on. He was gone. He was flying, falling, a golden sweet explosion.

His hips bucked against Daniel's and he bent carefully forward, leaning his forehead on Daniel's back. He panted and tried to swallow. When the rush receded a little, he could tell from the tenseness of Daniel's hole and the muscles of his legs that Daniel hadn't come yet. Jack smiled and licked his lips and unstuck his hand from Daniel's hip to reach for his dick, but as soon as he touched it, Daniel moved away, hitching his hips forward. It was like Jack moving his hand was the signal.

Without saying a word, he slid up the bed, away from Jack's hand, until he pulled free of Jack's sagging dick. Then he tucked a knee up and flipped onto his back, there in front of Jack, under his shoulders, spreading his legs around Jack's.

"Your mouth," he whispered, reaching to touch Jack's face. "I want your mouth now."

Jack got heavily down to his elbows, still a little dizzy, and Daniel took hold of his own dick and held it firmly, so that Jack could slide his lips down around it.

Daniel's turn to fuck Jack's mouth, and Jack revived enough to get his muscles organized to suck, and to use his tongue, and to cup Daniel's ass with one hand, sliding his fingers under the big muscle, thumbing his tender asshole. Daniel shivered and rocked his hips. Jack held on.

Daniel rocked under him, silent and taut, and then he was coming, letting go of his dick to grab the sheet with both hands. Then Jack felt him grab for a pillow and hide his face in it. Daniel's whole body jerked with the pulses from his dick. Jack kept his mouth sealed around Daniel, swallowing, keeping up. He'd learned to do that, practice making perfect, in that big oak bed in Memphis. He felt like smiling, but he had to concentrate. His own spent dick twitched in sympathy. Daniel tasted so damn good.

Finally, Daniel finished, and his abs and his legs went limp. Jack ran his tongue up to the notch at the base of the head, making Daniel twitch, and groan, briefly and softly, into the pillow. Then Jack let Daniel's dick slip from his mouth, and he dragged himself up Daniel's body to collapse at his side.

"Baby," he said, his arm over Daniel's chest, his lips against Daniel's ear, and was amazed at what he almost said on the heels of that silly, sweet little word. He closed his mouth tight instead, sighing through his nose, and relaxing into the unfamiliar bedding.

Daniel moved the pillow, and grabbed for the covers, pulling them over his body and Jack's.

"I'm really, really glad you're here," he slurred, falling fast into sleep.

"Me, too," Jack said, and he left his lips there, against Daniel's neck. A thought crept up, out of the warm blur of sleep. There was something he had to tell him, some bit of information Daniel would need. Something about Davis, and the poker game. But it could wait now. Because when he woke up in the morning, he would still be on leave, and Daniel would still be here. In his arms; against his skin. Jack smiled, and slept.


	7. Chapter 7

Sunlight woke Jack; the first light of dawn, cold and blue. For a moment he wasn't sure where he was. The scent and weight of Daniel against him were familiar and dear, and he closed his hand around Daniel's shoulder, but the curtains were wrong; the ceiling was wrong. Then he remembered. They weren't in the Memphis house, but in a hotel. In Washington.

Craning a little, he pressed a kiss to Daniel's nape and let his hand slide a few inches along Daniel's upper arm. Daniel responded -- probably still mostly asleep, as heavily relaxed as he felt, lying there against Jack -- with a slow press of his hips, and he sagged, rolling them back a little. Then he started to wake up, because he rubbed his ass into Jack's morning boner and purred. The increasingly organized and enthusiastic movement tugged the covers from Jack's shoulder. It was a little chilly in the room, but the heat under the covers was a sex-scented, luxurious temptation. Surely they could do lots more reveling in this temporary oasis. Jack let all considerations of yesterday's flight and tomorrow's uncertainty slip from his mind, lulled by the entirely compelling expanse of skin and muscle pressed along his body. His world shrank to the taste and touch of Daniel. He nipped at Daniel's earlobe and petted along Daniel's chest, down through the faint line of hair on his stomach, until he could close his hand around Daniel's dick. Daniel growled and pushed against Jack's groin again, and grabbed lazily for Jack's hip. He was still fumbling a little, as if his muscles didn't want to wake up.

They found a sleepy rhythm, Daniel rubbing his ass against Jack, Jack jerking Daniel's cock with his left hand, easy and tight. It was arousing and soothing at the same time. Jack closed his eyes and kept his lips pressed against Daniel's neck, smelling sweat and soap and skin. One of Daniel's legs had slid between his, a warm weight. This was comfort he could disappear into, as deeply and completely as he could disappear into sleep. Noticing how Daniel was breathing, how he twitched and murmured as Jack's gently expert touches pushed him toward climax, built Jack's arousal just as much as the rub of Daniel's ass against his cock.

Finally, "Jack," Daniel whispered, his muscles tightening, his whole body pausing. Then he squeezed forward, away from Jack's chest, curling around the implosion of his orgasm, and Jack held on to the now-wet and slippery shaft in his hand and strained his ears to listen for Daniel's ecstatic whispers. His other hand tightened on Daniel's shoulder. His own hard dick was still pressed between Daniel's cheeks. Jack smiled to himself, taut and waiting, listening to Daniel gasp his pleasure, and Jack's pelvis twitched a little on its own, yearning after the delicious friction he could get if he were to thrust now, nestled in tight against Daniel's ass.

"Jack, god, Jack," Daniel moaned, still mostly a whisper. His dick finished its pulsing, and he relaxed again, all over, except for the seductive, hungry-making cant of his hips, offering and opening himself.

Jack didn't want to move away even long enough to find the lube, he was so close to the edge. He scrunched forward, fitting his upper body to the sloppy sprawl of Daniel's, and rubbed against that beautiful ass, looking for the rhythm that Daniel's orgasm had so gloriously broken into. Daniel was panting.

Heat, and friction -- a little more friction than was strictly comfortable, but somehow it added a subtle newness to the familiar ecstasy.

He whispered, too. "So good, so good... Danny... Baby..."

He pressed close, and he knew he couldn't moan, so he closed his lips tightly and sealed them against Daniel's shoulder, scrubbing dick against ass, and then it was his turn for a climax that broke like a wave, making him freeze and then shiver, pooling slippery warmth all over himself and all over Daniel's backside. He gasped, silently, several times, and clutched at Daniel's shoulder and slid his arm around Daniel's chest. Daniel, fumbling again, searched up until his hand closed around Jack's, and, his awareness sliding and slipping back down through the tropical heat under the covers, Jack tightened his fingers around Daniel's, squeezed hard, once, and let sleep steal over them again.

He woke, for the second time that morning, out of twining sinuous dreams of Daniel, to find that he had been messily kissing Daniel's shoulder in his sleep. He was hard again, and he was still lying full-length against Daniel's back. Jack gave the shoulder a single conscious kiss, and pulled back and smiled at himself. This was some kind of binge, this immersion in Daniel's body, last night and this morning.

He waited a moment, listening to Daniel's steady breathing. This time Daniel didn't stir. At all. He was deeply unconscious in a sacked-out, post-mission way. Jack carefully, without joggling, raised himself on an elbow. Daniel looked rested, the dark circles under his eyes gone, the stress lines smoothed from his face. Knowing that expression was partly to his credit made Jack happy -- I've-got-a-secret-surprise-stashed-away, Christmas-morning happy. Daniel looked younger, so much more innocent, when he was asleep. Jack knew, from the stolen days over the last months at the Memphis house, that this, the not-so-early morning, was Daniel's best down time -- these were the two or three hours out of all the twenty-four when he would sleep the hardest. Jack's cycle of waking and sleeping was set to a different clock entirely, but he didn't begrudge Daniel his luxurious unconsciousness now.

They'd arrived in the capital late in the day, and Daniel had had to pull what amounted to an all-nighter, which was something Jack had done himself, plenty of times, but not for this academic-type work. The effort involved in Daniel's job for the military was probably just as taxing as Jack's, but in an entirely different way, Jack imagined. He wondered for a moment, until his mind shrugged off the futility of it, what it was, exactly, that had summoned Daniel to Washington. It was definitely urgent, but the scale of the urgency and the subject matter were both things that Jack didn't have enough information to even begin to evaluate. He was used to partial knowledge, and so this didn't frustrate him. He didn't even try to figure it out beyond a moment's idle thought. Whatever this mission was, it was no wonder that Daniel had been wiped by the schedule of the last couple of days. He'd probably sleep until noon.

Jack lay there, just breathing in the smell of him, listening to him snore softly, and admiring the touch of the pale morning light on Daniel's skin, until his stomach growled and the need for coffee and the need for a smoke became equally compelling. He crawled out of their bed, carefully tucking the warm blankets and comforter around Daniel's unresponsive form, crept away, and used the toilet. He discovered a fluffy, white hotel robe hanging behind the bathroom door -- very upscale. He put it on against the chill in the room, and went to the window and cracked it open to let out his smoke.

After one cigarette, he took a long, lazy shower, and shaved with even more than his usual precise care, because Daniel had said they had the time today. It was like he was on vacation -- a very strange feeling.

When he was quite small, maybe five or six years old, his parents and his brother and sister had visited some resort on Lake Michigan. He was used to the water at the Minnesota cabin, used to the little calm stretch of fishing pond, and even when it stormed there, it was familiar, and small enough not to terrify him.

But on the big lake, it was windy all the time, it seemed, and the waves had foam atop them, and you couldn't see the far shore. It might as well have been the ocean. Jack hadn't known what to make of it. His favorite memory of that trip was the lazy sleepy afternoons, when he would fall asleep, daubed with peanut butter and sand, under the flapping beach umbrella, his mother humming peacefully beside him, both of them lulled by the breakers.

The afternoons on that lake trip had seemed endless. The O'Neills had had nothing urgent to do and nowhere to go.

That same sense of being out of time, hidden inside a secret eddy of his life, came over Jack now, just as it sometimes did at the Memphis house. The feeling was even more pronounced this morning, because instead of Daniel's home, it was a hotel, with all those associations of secret trysts, and also, because it was work that they had stolen last night and this morning from.

Jack sighed, and looked at himself in the big, perfect mirror. He turned his head to one side, then the other. His shave was flawless, but there was a faint mark just above his left collar bone, where Daniel had bitten down when he'd come, last night. Jack smiled.

He dressed, quietly, carefully, and closed the room door as silently as he could, and went downstairs in search of breakfast.

The hotel restaurant's offerings were extensive and delicious. He ate too much of the Southern-style gravy, the biscuits, eggs, potatoes. He lingered over it all, still with that vacation feeling, and very aware of how Daniel was there, a splendid secret, upstairs, and as he leaned back against the red leather booth, savoring a new cigarette, the waitress came to top up his cup and clear his plates.

He smiled at her. All was right in his world. "Could I get a pitcher of coffee to take upstairs?"

"Of course, sir," she said, deftly pulling his check away to make the addition.

Hovering behind her as she turned away, and then sliding uninvited into the booth across from Jack, was Simmons, the Air Force major from the club at Bolling Field. In full dress blues, his hat under his elbow. Jack went cold all over.

"Good morning, sir," Jack said, pasting on a smile, his words infused with all the cheer he could summon. "I hope the weather in the capital's agreeing with you."

Simmons stared at him. Then he scooped up Jack's pack of Camels, and the Zippo atop it, and lit a cigarette. He dragged on it once, twice. Still staring. Still saying nothing.

Jack let his cheerful expression fade a bit, to "receptive." All his warning bells were going off. He remembered how quick Daniel's friend, Davis, had been to get them away from Simmons the night before. He waited, and Simmons stared. Jack slowly, casually, put his pack of smokes away in his shirt pocket, and his lighter in his pants. Still with a cheerful tone, and with a studied nonchalance, he said, as the waitress came with an empty cup, poured coffee for Simmons, "I guess it's a little early for a poker game, but hey..."

Simmons ignored the waitress, so she went away. He tapped some ashes into the big square glass ashtray. He continued to stare at Jack. Finally he leaned in. "If it's poker we're playing this morning, Lieutenant, the stakes are already way past your limit, you're bluffing, and I have an ace in the hole." He smiled, as if at a hidden joke. It was not a friendly smile.

"I don't see any cards, sir, do you? So if it's a joke you're making, you're losing me." Jack tried for "sincerely puzzled." His heart was pounding.

Simmons sipped his coffee. He drew breath, but his thought was interrupted by the waitress, bringing back the carafe Jack had ordered.

"Will you be having breakfast, sir?" she asked Simmons.

"Just the coffee, thanks," Simmons said, noting the carafe, then meeting Jack's eyes again. He said, half under his breath, "You can't really be that dumb. But maybe--" Jack kept his expression open, his hands in his lap.

Simmons leaned closer, "So you're taking that pitcher upstairs to Daniel Jackson?"

Jack raised his eyebrows. "Is Doctor Jackson in the hotel, then?"

Simmons smirked, and took another drag from the cigarette he'd stolen. "Coffee, with room _service_. You really are his lap dog. How considerate of you. And how very inappropriate." He drew breath, seemed to warm to his sneer. "You really should have thought about your career in such a high-profile position with your nation's government before you decided to roll over and put your legs in the air for him. But I guess for your kind, logical forethought is just not an option."

Jack stood up. He moved more quickly than he intended to, and he hit his knee on the corner of the table. It was a welcome distraction, because it let him refocus, and so refrain from making his right hand into a fist. The muscle was twitching in his jaw, and his teeth were sore already from biting down on what he wanted to say. He hesitated, staring at that smirking face, imagining his fist smashing into the bulging nose. Then he turned and methodically took his jacket from where he'd hung it on the corner of the booth and put it on.

"Doctor Jackson should be a little more careful in his pet selection next time," Simmons said, grinning up at Jack. "He really should learn to avoid celebrities."

Jack allowed himself one glare. Then he picked up his carafe, and the check, and headed for to the register to pay the piper, still clenching his teeth.

He'd been blindsided, and in the worst possible way. He couldn't tell yet if Simmons' goal was to ruin him or Daniel or both, but if he already felt secure enough to gloat? Jack felt sick.

When he arrived back upstairs, the room was empty of Daniel, but he could hear the shower. He noticed, with a sense of relief, and with a strange and unwelcome clarity, that Daniel had pulled down the bedclothes on the second bed, and had smashed its pillows into a messy heap. Jack set the carafe on the desk and stripped, then got a cup from the "welcome" basket and poured. He tried to control his breathing. His hands, he was glad to see, were steady.

He paused in the bathroom door. The room was white and bright, and full of steam.

"It's me," he said, somehow wanting to spare Daniel even the possibility of being startled. But he felt silly the moment he said it; who else would it be?

"What time is it?" Daniel said. He sounded sleepy and relaxed through the rush of water.

"After ten," Jack answered, climbing into the shower behind Daniel with a jangle of the metal rings that held up the curtain, holding the cup out of the spray.

"Oh my god. You brought coffee." Daniel moved half away from the stream of water, pressing himself against Jack in the process, and grinning. He looked like he was about to say something more, but a shadow crossed his face, quickly shaken off, like a wisp of cloud against the sun. Instead of taking the cup, he cupped one hand around Jack's and put the fingertips of the other hand against the rim. Leaning in and closing his eyes, he brought the cup to his mouth and sipped.

"I guess black is okay," Jack said softly, distractedly, riveted by the soft pout of Daniel's lips around the cup.

"Mm," Daniel said, seguing from one sip straight into the next, longer one. The coffee was very hot.

He drank down about half of it, then released the cup, leaving it in Jack's hand, and put his arms around Jack and his head on Jack's shoulder. Jack closed his eyes. The contrast between the anger and fear he'd just felt, and this, all this warm, wet skin, Daniel's skin, was almost too much.

"I woke up and you were gone," Daniel said, and Jack was pretty sure the plaintive whine was manufactured. Almost sure. He was still shaken up by Simmons, enough to second-guess Daniel's mood. He put a hand on Daniel's arm, still holding the coffee cup, and leaned back so that he could see Daniel's face. It was content and untroubled. Daniel was smiling. Yeah, definitely laying it on with the whine, then. It made Jack smile, too. Then Daniel rolled his hips, pressing his groin against Jack's thigh, to show Jack he was getting hard.

"Now I'm back," Jack said, lightly. He tightened his hand on Daniel's arm, and tilted his head and kissed him. Coffee, and warmth, and then Daniel murmured against Jack's lips and kissed him back. Daniel slid his tongue into Jack's mouth, exploring and tasting, as if it were the first time he'd ever done that. It was one of the things Jack found so compelling about this man -- the intensity he brought to everything he did, and the care with which he did it. Jack was flooded with emotion. He tightened his arm around Daniel and dove into the kiss, shaping his mouth around Daniel's tongue, welcoming it in, in a wholly sexual way. Jack couldn't hold back his moan.

The intent kissing went on for a while, the hot water pouring down around them. Finally Jack tore his mouth away long enough to set the now-diluted coffee in the corner soap dish, and then folded Daniel against him again. They kissed, the water streaming down their bodies, pressed full length against each other, their erections lining up between their bellies. Jack kissed along Daniel's jaw, down his neck, holding him still with a strong grip at his hips, and knelt. He lingered for a moment at a nipple, but he had a goal in mind and he thought, smiling to himself, that he could be just as single-minded as Daniel, when you got right down to it.

Daniel had figured out what he was going to do. "Jack, Jack, oh my god," he said, a seductive murmur no louder than the sound of the water.

Jack kept smiling until he couldn't any more because of the firm flesh in his mouth. He closed his eyes again, still gripping Daniel's hips, and savored the fullness, the shape of it on his tongue. He sealed his mouth around Daniel's cock and rocked gently with his whole upper body, increasing the stroke until the head was pushing against his palate each time. Daniel's murmuring had gone all choked. This was bliss -- better than food, better than a smoke, to fill himself this way with the warmth and life of Daniel.

Words formed in his mind, suddenly and sharply: _This is worth it._

The feeling was urgent, a counterattack to the residue of fear that Simmons had left him with, and as the words faded, something surprising, yet inevitable followed them: _I love him. I love him. This is it for me. This is it._

The unspoken words, and what Jack was doing -- making love to Daniel with his mouth -- seemed to twine around each other, to become one thing.

Jack tightened his hands, increased the pace of pulling Daniel's cock in and out, and at the end Daniel shifted just a little, unconsciously, because he was right at the brink, right at the point of coming, and Jack had to hold his breath because the water was splashing in his face.

Then Daniel clutched at his head, too hard, and said, "Jack...", and he shot into Jack's mouth, as warm as the water, bitter and thick, and Jack drank it down, still holding Daniel's hips, bracing him now as he sagged against the tile. Jack heard his head thump against the wall.

Jack waited him out, letting his softening cock slip from between his lips, pressing his face into the wet curls and petting gently down Daniel's thigh. He felt peaceful, secure. Like he'd come to some kind of decision. His own erection was wanting attention, but it was like a pleasant, buzzing backdrop. He was content to kneel there and feel Daniel come down from the high of his climax. When Daniel began to pet the side of his head again, Jack reached back and turned off the water. The silence seemed loud, the bathroom echoing with it. Daniel shivered.

"Come on," Daniel said, calm and in a normal conversational tone. He boosted Jack up with one hand and stepped over the lip of the tub. He handed Jack a towel and grabbed one for himself, but he didn't really dry off all the way, and he didn't let Jack finish either. Still damp, still with dripping hair, he pushed Jack out into the cool bedroom again and down on his back on the bed. Daniel climbed between his knees, pushing them open, and Jack relaxed and put his head on the pillows and let it happen.

Daniel engulfed him in a warm slide, sucking firmly as he took Jack's cock all the way down, and from there, he never let up. It was as fast and urgent as if this was the first time they'd fucked in months, not the fifth or sixth time in three days. Jack didn't try to manage it at all, or hold it back. He was silent, tensed, just feeling the avalanche of sensation as Daniel intently, skillfully, carefully, brought him to a climax that exploded all his thoughts and left no room for him to know anything except Daniel.

_"Love you; love you; love you,"_ was what was singing in his head when he could think again. Daniel was resting his head on Jack's thigh, cupping a warm hand over Jack's dick and balls. Jack found his own hand and rested it on Daniel's temple. All his muscles were slack. He felt warm all over.

_"I love you, Daniel."_ He almost said it. Instead he opened his eyes and looked at the plaster ceiling, the simple, elegant crown molding, the dust motes floating in the filtered yellow light coming through the sheers. He breathed, and he listened to Daniel breathe.

Daniel said, "Mm," and pressed a kiss to Jack's now-soft dick, and that made Jack squeeze his eyes shut. He'd never had anything like this in his life. Never felt this, never done this. Never met anyone like Daniel Jackson. Never would again, he was sure. He puffed out his breath, trying to ease the sudden tightening in his chest. He'd only gotten close, actually made friends, with one other man that he'd had sex with, and that had been good, until it wasn't working any more and they'd drifted away from each other, but it had been nothing, _nothing_ like this. He'd watched Ferretti with Diane, watched his sister with her sailor, and this was what that was like, he thought. He didn't know how to do this. He didn't know if he could do it, if the life they had to live would let them do it. But he wanted to. Badly. Intently. He didn't know how it would work. But all he could call it was love. He kept looking at the ceiling, and feeling Daniel's skin against his own.

Daniel stretched, then slid away. He got out of bed and walked, naked and careless, into the bathroom to retrieve his cup and emerged to refill it from the carafe.

"Thanks for the coffee," he said, turning to smile at Jack again over the rim of the cup. Jack's heart turned over. Danny was so handsome, so damn beautiful. He was becoming Jack's whole world. But there were some things he had to know, right now. Jack hated to break the mood; break into their gorgeous, vacation-like bubble.

"We've got a problem," Jack said.

Daniel frowned and sat down beside him and put a hand on his shoulder.   
"What is it?"

"A Major Simmons, Air Force uniform, was in the restaurant downstairs, when I went to have breakfast. He gave me a ration of crap. He thinks he knows about us."

"No," Daniel said, strong and vehement. He looked away, going distant all of a sudden, looking inside himself. "Simmons, again. That complete bastard. I should've...." He sat there and thought. Then he looked at Jack again. "What did he say to you?"

"Nothing substantial. Saw that I was taking coffee upstairs. Knew that you were registered here. Called me your lap dog." Jack gritted his teeth. That would do for a summary.

"Damn it," Daniel said. He got up and found his glasses and put them on. He poured more coffee, and drank some. Then he set the cup on the desk and began to pace. Jack watched him, thinking thoughts inappropriate to the matter at hand. But Daniel in motion, chewing on a problem, was like a racehorse, all controlled passion, barely reined in. He filled the room with his energy.

"God damn it," Daniel said. "I was so wrong to pull you into this. I should have known. I should never have asked you to fly me here. I just...."

"Hey," Jack said. It didn't cut into the ruminating. "Hey," he said again, louder, and Daniel stopped pacing and met his eyes, looking anguished and guilty.

"Come here." Daniel's frown deepened, but he came. He climbed back onto the messy bed and snuggled in. Jack settled Daniel's head on his shoulder and reached down and pulled Daniel's thigh across his own. Daniel was warm and heavy and real.

"I'm so sorry," Daniel said.

"You needed a pilot. I was available. And I did kind of have to talk you into it."

"I remember." Daniel sighed.

"This isn't all your fault, Daniel."

"But it _is._ I knew better than to let you come with me. I was being selfish when I first asked; I knew immediately that it was a bad idea; that it was much too exposed for you. Too risky. I knew better than to be with you in public, here, like this. Washington is a fishbowl, and I should never have pulled you into the...."

"Pulled me into what?" Jack stroked Daniel's shoulder, trying to soothe. It wasn't working, but it felt so good to touch.

"I can't... The project is... You know. Can't tell you." Daniel snorted, somehow suffusing the sound with irony and regret. "Can't tell you even now. Even though we're ... lovers," and he stumbled a little over the word, "and we're into something just as outside the rules as anything the government has me doing here."

Jack smiled at the word Daniel had chosen for them, holding _"lovers"_ to himself mentally for a moment. But they had to get through this conversation. They had to figure out what they were in for. "I know you can't tell me about the project you're working on. I'm not worried about that."

"But Simmons ... just the Simmons part...."

"Yeah. That."

Daniel took a deep breath. "I think. I don't know; but I think, that for some reason he's running an anti-Communist crusade that must include trying to gather information against homosexuals. I thought it was just, you know, root out the Reds, but after this, after what he said to you...." Daniel whacked himself in the forehead and stirred restlessly and sat up. Jack closed his hand around Daniel's calf, or he would have pulled away and started pacing again, Jack was sure. But Jack wanted, needed, to be touching him, and Daniel seemed to accept that, settling again on the bed even as he kept talking, kept thinking. "He must have some kind of mandate, some reason to look at the military, and maybe all the branches, not just the Air Force."

"But you aren't military."

"I know. I just. I can't say much about this, okay? But he tried to get a friend of mine in trouble, back in Korea, but in wartime a lot of stuff gets overlooked, and anyway.... I thought it was just about me, at first, and then I thought it was just about Communism, but if he said that..." Daniel stared into space.

"There's more. When Davis came to get me, last night, Simmons was there, hanging out at the Officer's Club at Bolling. That's when he met me for the first time. We'd all been playing poker, just killing time. But when Davis came, I guess Simmons put it together, that I'd been your ride here." Jack squeezed his calf, and Daniel looked at him. To meet his gaze was intense, like looking into the sun. "That's the first time he called me your lap dog." Jack smiled, grimly. "Davis knew him."

Daniel was thinking hard. He knew a lot more about this than Jack did, that was clear. Jack wasn't surprising him, not at all, with any of this information. What Daniel finally said was, "I'm so, so sorry. This is so bad for you. I do feel responsible. I should have known."

Jack sat up. "Hey... Like I said before. People get to have friends, yes? Friends who go to jazz concerts with them, and visit them on leave, and even fly them to Washington if there's an emergency."

Daniel shook his head. "You don't understand. There's nothing Simmons can't twist. Nothing he won't...."

"Major Davis knows something about all this, doesn't he?"

Daniel shook his head, imperceptibly, warning Jack off, looking anguished again, and Jack could take a hint. He patted Daniel's shoulder.

"He was stupid, Daniel. Showing me his hand like that. Now we know. We know what he's up to, we know what he wants. He won't get it."

Daniel looked unconvinced, but Jack could see hope in the corners of his mouth, the set of his shoulders. Jack went on, "He may be sneaky and underhanded, but we're more sneaky and more underhanded."

That won him a smile. "Yes. We are," Daniel agreed.

"We sit tight, we see what happens, and we can make sure he gets no ammunition, whatsoever. Whatever kind of witch hunt he's on."

Daniel took him by the shoulders, frowning again. "I said this before, back at home... It's you I'm worried about, not me. You're the one in the military, you're the one with--"

Jack interrupted him with a kiss. "Sneaky," he said, and kissed again. "Underhanded," he said, and another kiss. He felt Daniel smile against his mouth. He leaned, pushing Daniel back into the bed. Daniel's arms came around him. Daniel kissed him back. With tongue.

Daniel had called them "lovers." Daniel had said the word. It made Jack warm inside, made him so happy.

They could fight this, whatever it was. Together. Jack slid against him, kissing, feeling skin. They were lovers, and Daniel knew it, too, because Daniel had said it. Compared to that, even Simmons' threat seemed small and unimportant.


	8. Chapter 8

"Sneaky. Underhanded."

Jack focused on the crease in Daniel's forehead, on getting it to go away. He almost succeeded. He kissed, sealing his lips to Daniel's soft, coffee-flavored mouth. He smoothed the way with his tongue, and tilted his head, and used all the tricks that he'd learned always worked, concentrating on trying to get Daniel hard and horizontal again, now that he'd achieved the first objective of getting him back into the bed.

But this time, he couldn't make Daniel stop thinking.

Daniel closed his eyes and let his head fall back, hard, against the head board. Away from Jack's eager mouth. Then he firmly grasped Jack's shoulders and pushed him away.

"Okay," he said. "Hunger and worry are, for once, winning over your considerable charms." He let his hands slide from Jack's shoulders and fall into his own lap. Jack winced and reluctantly rolled off of him and leaned on one elbow. Dammit.

"I'm sorry," Daniel said, eyes still closed, and he pulled his hands up to his face and scrubbed. "I'm sorry. I just.... Look," he said, and he sat up, "If you need to ... you can –- fuck me again if you want to, I'm not trying to—"

"Hey!" Jack said, stung. He put his hand against Daniel's chest, feeling he was holding back a flood of Daniel's words and over-compensating rationalizations. Daniel looked at him, still anguished, still worried and way too upset. "Hey." Jack softened his voice and his expression. "Let's get you some breakfast. You've been thinking about all this crap on two cups of coffee. Not good."

"Okay," Daniel said, nodding. The crease in his forehead went away. His eyebrows resumed something approximating their normal position.

"Okay," Jack repeated, and he wanted to lean in and kiss some more, but that was so not going to work. It made him uneasy. Usually sex, snuggling, and more sex worked like a charm -- on his bad moods and on Daniel's. He gave up. He scooted back and turned and found his clothes, which were not too much the worse for wear after lying on the floor just a short while. He looked up from fastening his pants to see Daniel getting dressed, too.

One thing -- one word, actually, of Daniel's, was still echoing in Jack's head. He glanced at Daniel, but he couldn't see his face, bowed over his buttons as he was, and Jack went back to buckling his own belt. Jack found that little word was making him smile. He tried not to let it grow into a grin, but he was sure Daniel could hear the grin in his voice anyway.

"Is that what we are?" He looked up, and met Daniel's puzzled gaze. "Lovers?" The soft syllables tasted good in his mouth, hung in the air between them, like promises.

Daniel smiled, and it looked somehow shy. "I don't mean to be the one to unilaterally define--"

The phone on the table between the beds rang, a sharp tinny sound that made them both jump. Daniel frowned at Jack, and strode to answer it.

"Daniel Jackson." He listened, and turned to Jack with a look of relief, but then worry chased across his handsome face. Jack waited, and watched, scooting along the bed to find his shoes.

"We can meet you sooner than that," Daniel said to whoever it was, and listened again. "…Jack has, but I haven't. But that's not important.... Yes.... I understand. We'll be there."

Daniel hung up the phone and looked at it for a moment. He noticed his glasses next to the lamp and put them on.

"That was Paul... Major Davis." He looked down for a moment, an undefinable expression in his eyes. "He wants us to meet him at the side entrance in half an hour."

"Okaaay. So much for a day off to eat bonbons and watch _Lucy_." Jack was half turned away, putting on his coat and searching its pockets to make sure he had his keys, the room keys, and his cigarettes, but he heard Daniel's chuckle. The cold touch of his lighter made him think again of Simmons, down in the restaurant, and he frowned. Daniel put a hand on his shoulder and turned him, sweeping him into a tight hug and a wet, intense kiss. Jack, surprised and pleased, responded intently.

Then Daniel pulled back, well before Jack was ready to be done kissing, and put a hand to Jack's cheek, cupping, then turning his hand to scrub gently with his knuckles. Jack was surprised at the affection, after the way he'd had to destroy their earlier mood. In fact he was delighted, a warm rush of emotion flooding his lower body. Tenderness and affection. _Like lovers. This is what lovers do._ He closed his eyes for a moment, just feeling the brush of Daniel's fingers. "Thanks for the pep talk, Lieutenant."

Jack opened his eyes and put his hand to Daniel's cheek, and felt the mirroring of the gesture was somehow appropriate, and then Daniel, smiling, turned away to put on his suit coat and his top coat.

Jack watched him for a minute, reluctant to tear himself away from the room, to leave their oasis. But the moment was over.

_Lovers…._

Seized by an instinct of suspicion, Jack stepped around the bed and dug into his duffel again, finding the half empty tube of lubricant and zipping it carefully into the inside pocket of his jacket. Only then did he follow Daniel to the door of their hotel room. Stolen moments, stolen hours. He sighed, hearing the key turn in the lock. It felt like it might be a while before he'd be able to forget, again, about the world that lay out here. Daniel was already at the elevator down the hall, emphatically pushing the "down" button with two long, strong fingers. Jack hurried to rejoin him.

The rain had blown through the capital­­ in the wee hours, and the sky was hard and high and blue. The wind was cold, and Jack was glad of his gloves. He wished he had a hat. Daniel pushed his fedora more firmly onto his head and glanced at the sky. Jack noticed how much he wanted to touch Daniel, and pushed his fists deeper into his pockets.

Soon, Davis pulled up, driving a black sedan that screamed "government issue". Daniel got into the front seat and Jack climbed in the back. Davis pulled away from the curb abruptly, blending into the heavy traffic with less room to spare than Jack would have risked, and Jack decided, by that and by the set of Davis' jaw, that the man was angry. But when he spoke, after a few moments of intense driving, his voice was calm and polished, as it had been in every conversation Jack had had with him during their brief acquaintance.

Davis said, "Thanks for meeting me on such short notice."

"It's no trouble. Truly -- you haven't inconvenienced me at all. I got to sleep in after all the excitement last night, and I even got a shower." There was a smile in Daniel's voice; he was using all his charm. Jack felt a fleeting moment of jealousy, quickly stifled, and watched Davis' face in the rear view mirror. It definitely softened. Great politician, his Daniel.

"But no breakfast," Davis checked, still talking to Daniel, looking at Jack for a moment in the mirror. Jack narrowed his eyes. He wondered just how observant Davis was, and how much he needed to worry about that, and what kind of history he and Daniel really had. _Whoa,_ he told himself. That "lap dog" comment of Simmons' must have really stung. Because Davis was a friendly. That, he reminded himself, he was certain of. Because Daniel was.

"I assume we're on our way to remedy that," Daniel said, still extra-warmly, still making an effort.

"And give you indigestion on top of it, I'm afraid."

"What's up," Daniel asked, quietly, but not casually.

_Yes!_ Jack said, silently. _What **is** up? The lapdog really wants to know. _

"Well, it seems there's a continuation of last night's excitement after all. This briefing will be a little strange, I'm afraid, because Lieutenant O'Neill isn't cleared for everything you're cleared for, but I've been informed we're going to have to work around that, because he's been tapped to be your pilot again." Davis' eyes in the mirror were resolutely forward.

"I have, sir?" Jack leaned toward the front seat, and then tried to stop himself from leaning.

"It seems Major Simmons has learned of your background flying Traders, and that you're also rated on the E-1. He thought that was ... a very convenient coincidence." Davis' voice dripped irony. Jack frowned.

"You can't mean we're going to see the--" Daniel broke in, and then interrupted himself. "You can't mean we're going to the Pacific."

"That's exactly what I mean. And yes: Both of you."

Daniel leaned back in his seat. Jack wished he could see his face. Daniel said, "I feel the indigestion starting already."

Major Davis' briefing was as elegant and as understated as their breakfast.

Jack was happy, because the news from Davis meant that he was going to be spending at least two more weeks in Daniel's company, on the government's dime. But his happiness faded when Davis deposited them back at the hotel, and they were confronted with a cavalier mess that meant their room had been searched, and that the searchers didn't care if they had made it obvious.

Jack stood there, inside the closed door, Daniel just behind him, and heard Daniel's quick intake of breath. Jack turned, bringing the tube of lube out of his pocket and showing Daniel he had taken it with him.

"Sixth sense?" Daniel said, and Jack said, "I wish."

Both of them knew what name to attach to this ... warning, or threat, whatever it was. Neither of them spoke it out loud.

~~~~

Jack braced his arm against the icy rail of the _Yorktown,_ glad of his parka, its unfamiliar cut and style just one more reminder of the truly weird turn his life had taken in the last few days, and stuffed his hands deeper in its pockets. He didn't even want to pull his hands out long enough to light a cigarette, the wind was so biting. Night was falling, the early dusk of winter. Soon they'd all be called to the mess, regulars and strangers alike.

He remembered this cold -- the biting, battering cold of the north Pacific. He closed his eyes, feeling the ship moving under his feet like a living thing, huge and majestic. He had nowhere to channel the leftover adrenaline from his perfect landing an hour or so ago on the carrier's deck. It was indeed like riding a bicycle, those skills. He'd loved every minute of it, this trip, down to the restrained, professional smile of the copilot as his wheels touched. Tharp, the name on his uniform had read. Jack had to wonder if it was his real name. It was that kind of mission.

Besides the old familiar thrill of the carrier landing, it was like a trip back in time to be here. The boat, the place, it all flooded his mind with memories of Korea, the missions he'd flown back then, the things he'd seen and done. Lotta water under the bridge. He opened his eyes on the thought, so that he could look down at the black water and the fast-fading scraps of foam far below. Yeah, he remembered all this. Just as he'd remembered the Tracer, settling into its cockpit again as if into a familiar coat. It must have been the intensity of the war, he mused. It was too vivid, the way the Tracer had felt, the sense of settling right back in. It put him on a hair trigger, too, bringing up all the wartime instincts that he didn't really need in the Angels, dangerous and thrilling though the work was.

He'd assumed it would feel strange to fly the bigger plane again after months of faster, sleeker jets, but he'd been wrong. But it had most definitely been strange to have Daniel there on board, to have the cover of the utterly alien Air Force uniform. Most of all it had been strange and unpleasant to fly under the sharp and critical eye of Simmons, knowing with cold certainty that the man had a grudge against him, and against Daniel, too.

Just about everything about the circumstances of this trip was strange, except for the plane itself, and the biting embrace of winter at sea. Crazy that the Pacific breeze would seem welcome, but after Simmons' all-but-insults over the last two days, and the dislocation of being in the dark about so much of what he was doing here, it did.

He was United States Air Force Capt. Thomas Evans for the duration of this trip, a trip whose purpose and significance he was still ignorant of, and he could only hope that, surrounded by mostly Navy people as he was, no one would ask him anything about the Air Force that he couldn't answer, and that he wouldn't do anything too out of character for the flyboy he was supposed to be.

Another Tracer had landed while he and Daniel and Simmons and the rest of his mysterious crew had been welcomed in. After all the salutes and handshaking, he'd been shunted off to wait, without even the benediction of a sideways glance from Daniel, while his passengers had been briefed by the _Yorktown_ officers. He hadn't gotten a chance to see who was on the other E-1, or speculate if that plane was part of this secret mission of Daniel's, or what. His bet was yes.

He had tried not to wonder what the fuck they were all doing out here in the middle of nowhere. His speculations would be useless and futile. Maybe he'd get to learn, eventually, but most likely not. He sighed and leaned harder against the railing. Then he frowned. That was a light, in the distance -- must be practically to the horizon. The mist had been getting thicker as darkness fell, and visibility was very limited now, but he'd bet a carton of Camels that there was another ship out there. He shook his head. Another fine mess Daniel'd gotten him into this time. Oh, the messes he could get into with Daniel -- that was a much nicer train of thought than wondering about the looming mystery of the other ship, and so he followed it until a sharply whistled bar of music dislodged him from reveries of warm skin and blue eyes, and made him swivel his head, searching the shadows.

Someone was whistling the Navy hymn -- not too strange, on a ship, after all, but he frowned. Something about the pitch and the, well, attitude of the whistler. It sounded ... petulant. Sarcastic. Then a pause. Jacks strained his eyes in the gloom. The whistler was standing over there, out of the wind, next to the big superstructure that blocked Jack's view of the flight deck. The next thing Jack heard was the opening bars of "Earth Angel."

He straightened and walked toward the dark figure. Quickly. The whistling stopped, mid-measure.

"Good evening, Captain Evans," said a familiar voice.

"Wow," Jack said. And then he bit off the next words he wanted to say: _"Harry Maybourne; what the fuck."_ He paused. Was Harry using his own name for this mission? Could this night get any weirder? "What are you doing here?"

"Freezing my ass off, same as you. Aren't you gonna offer an old friend a smoke?"

"Sure I am. If I knew the old friend's name." Out of the wind now, Jack pushed back his hood and pulled out his cigarettes. The bright flare of his lighter touched Maybourne's sharp nose and sleek hair with warm orange. Yes, Maybourne it certainly was, and he never hesitated, cupping cold hands, with careless familiarity, around Jack's, to hold the lighter steady against the tip of his cadged cigarette. Jack had known those hands very well, once upon a time. He narrowed his eyes.

"Oh, it's me. Just the same old Harry." He took a drag of the Camel, his sardonic eyes meeting Jack's for an instant before Jack had to close his lighter, bringing darkness down around them once again. Harry Maybourne. Lotta memories there. What had he just been thinking, about water under the bridge? Jack sighed, and added a sarcastic edge to his voice.

"Is there a branch of the government that's _not_ involved in this operation?"

"I'd have to say, no. Everyone wants a piece of this. And there're just so damn many pieces!" Maybourne's smirk was barely illuminated by the glowing tip of the Camel, but Jack knew it well enough to fill it in. Jack didn't know what to say to that. He had a lot of questions, but most of them he didn't dare ask. He'd been around enough covert stuff during Korea to understand the game -- if you weren't told something outright, that meant you didn't need to know it.

"Well, you know me, Harry. Just a humble pilot. My piece is to fly the brass in and fly them out. Then, game over."

Watching Maybourne smoke made Jack want a cigarette himself. He pulled out his pack and lighter again, exposing his fingers to the cold once again, and soon the smoke was warm in his throat and in his chest. It eased the lump of fear there, just a little. What was Maybourne doing here?

Maybourne grunted at him, clearly disagreeing, but intent on his cigarette.

Jack continued, "Last I knew, you'd taken your discharge and gone to work for the civilians." Jack knew perfectly well it was the FBI, and that Maybourne had become one of the agents that were, in dedicated legions, sniffing out Reds and Socialists all over the military and the government. But despite Maybourne's assurance that his real name was in use today, Jack didn't know if mentioning the bureau outright was allowed.

"That's right. And that's why I'm here. To represent the FBI. Any time you have this kind of high-level contact with the agents of a foreign government, there's a chance of contamination. This time, we made sure to have our own people involved." Maybourne's voice had that edge of true-believer conviction that had always annoyed Jack. A smarmy, overly sincere edge. But for all he knew, these days Maybourne meant it. Maybe he really was that dedicated.

"High-level. Right. You flatter me, Harry. Like I told you, I'm just the chauffeur this trip."

Maybourne stepped in and grabbed Jack's wrist, flicking his cigarette away into the dark in a shower of sparks as he did so. His voice was angry and low.

"You can cut the ingenue act for me, Tommy-boy. Surely Doctor Jackson told you more than that."

"Doctor Jackson has told me exactly nothing, as is totally appropriate for his work, whatever it is." Jack bit off each word, resisting Maybourne's pressure on his wrist. Maybourne was standing way closer to him than he should be. Jack got a hit of sweat and cologne and warm wool. More memories. More things he shouldn't know. More secrets. They swarmed around this man.

"God help you, you're telling the truth." The swirling clouds opened, as a gust of wind hit them in the back, making them both stagger. White moonlight showed Jack his old friend's puzzled face. "You don't know what's going on. Why we're all here."

"Like I said. Doctor Jackson takes his classified -- things -- very seriously."

Maybourne stared at him for a moment, his expression blank, yet there was something sad and regretful in his gaze. Jack looked away. He didn't back off, but he raised his cigarette to his lips and took the last drag. It was calming. Jesus, it was cold out here.

"I'll cut to the chase for you, Captain. I'm here to be the bureau's eyes and ears for the big meeting with these Russian technocrats that your friend the good doctor is going to translate for." Jack's head snapped back around, his eyes meeting Maybourne's, at the word "Russian".

"But out of the goodness of my heart, I waltzed out here into the freezing fucking mist to give you a heads up about Simmons, if the hair on the back of your neck wasn't already standing up. Yeah, you know what I mean. Good thing you're not playing dumb about everything about this operation, though the dumb act always was one of your best things."

"Simmons," Jack said.

"You're on his list, my friend. Jackson is, too, and has been for years. Maybe he didn't tell you that. But Simmons hasn't been able to, pardon the pun, nail the good doctor for anything. Yet. Apparently he's too valuable, or too careful, or both. But God help me, I'm feeling compelled to warn you, for auld lang syne, that Simmons thinks you're his newest and best piece of ... leverage .... against Jackson. So watch your ass. Not just your boyfriend's. Savvy?"

Jack jerked his hand away, then, and clamped down hard on his back teeth. He pulled out his Camels again, to give himself some breathing room. He lit one and handed it to Maybourne, who stepped away, finally, out of Jack's face, and leaned his back against the metal tower that had sheltered them from the worst of the wind. Jack lit his own cigarette and leaned, too. He didn't know what to say. His stomach felt the way it did when he hit an unexpected air pocket. He'd tried to ignore the threat. Tried to ride it out, get through the mission, follow orders. Enjoy the stolen time with Daniel. What a fucking Pollyanna he'd been. The incredible lure of being with Daniel, showing off for Daniel, had blinded him.

"Thanks for the act of charity, there, buddy," was what he finally came up with, his voice dry and reluctant.

"I'm serious as a heart attack, Captain. Ignore me if you want, but if you do, you'll... Aw, fuck it. Don't know why I even bother." Maybourne flicked away his second cigarette, apparently intending to turn and go with no more farewell than that. Jack grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Thanks. That's what I should have said. Thanks."

Maybourne turned back around, grabbing Jack's arms with both hands, leaning in, his intensity as unpleasant as his smoky breath.

"I'm trying to tell you: You've got to do something, Jack. You've got to strike first. If you've got any strings to pull at all, pull them. Hard. Fast. Soon. 'Cause this won't be just barracks gossip. Believe me: Simmons is trouble. He has friends in high places."

He pushed Jack away, and stalked off into the darkness. Jack watched him go, realizing he hadn't asked nearly enough questions, realizing he should have asked how Maybourne knew these things, how in the fuck Maybourne had known about him and Daniel in the first place, and if it was more than just Simmons' suspicions and Maybourne's own ability to read Jack, the last time they'd met. Maybourne had insisted he could tell Jack was seeing someone. Jack had blown him off at the time, his head full of his new posting, his new thing with Daniel. He should have listened. He should have asked.

A white flare of light cut into the wet darkness. Maybourne looked up, and quickened his pace across the deck. More spotlights flared from the tower. Jack heard the unmistakable beat of helicopter blades, close and getting closer.

Maybourne turned around, shouting over the din. "They're here, Captain. It's show time."

Men were pouring out of the doors that led to the bridge and the lower decks. Jack drifted closer. This would certainly interfere with dinner. He could see Daniel, unmistakable in his non-military great coat, and Simmons hovering nearby. The helicopter was coming in closer, getting ready to land. The spotlight picked out the Red star, the Russian letters. Jack's spine tingled. This was as close as he'd come to these bastards in years. And he'd never wanted to get this up close and personal to this particular enemy. He watched, fascinated, as the ungainly craft settled in. The noise was deafening.

Then a group of Russians was boiling out of the helicopter, and Daniel and the others met them, and hustled them inside. The engines throttled back, the blades slowed.

_Son of a bitch,_ Jack thought, watching the guards left posted by the helicopter's doors, watching the blank door Daniel and the others had disappeared through. _Son of a bitch._


	9. Chapter 9

Hearing Maybourne's stark warning was like getting a bucket of the cold Pacific water dumped on his head. Jack had been a reckless fool. Now he had to get careful again. If it wasn't already too late.

 

He watched, as if hypnotized, the slowing blades of the Russian copter, smoked one more cigarette, burning Maybourne's message into his mind, and then went in, and down and down the clattering ladders, down into the _Yorktown's_ lower decks, to find some dinner.

In the steamy, echoing mess, he found Tharp, and the navigator he'd flown in with, but the rest of their party wasn't eating with the crew. It made sense that they'd be involved in some kind of VIP meeting, away from the regular ship's hands. Jack had caught sight of Maybourne once more, drifting through the crowd, but he didn't look Jack's way.

While eating, Jack made himself talk pleasantly with Tharp, and he kept it to mundane chatter about the planes -- things they both would know from the service, purely technical things that Jack could discuss in his sleep. He waited at the table after Tharp excused himself, and watched the low-ceilinged room empty.

Without any ship duties, he was a solitary slacker in the bustle of the Yorktown's operations, and that was fine by him. Maybourne had only added to his suspicion that he didn't want to get to know anybody, that he shouldn't trust anybody, on this mission, except Daniel. So he was glad to see Tharp go. He expected that eventually some watch officer would tell him where he was supposed to sleep, but for the time being, he found himself drawn outside again.

There was a new bustle of activity on the deck. There were winches working, and orders being shouted in two languages, and pretty soon he caught sight of Daniel among the foreigners. Everyone seemed tense and excited. There seemed to be an argument going on about how best to proceed, with lots of gestures and swearing. At one point Daniel eased a little apart from the nervously milling group to talk earnestly and privately with one of the Russians, an older, grim-faced man. Jack was too far away to see the other man's face, and the Russian uniforms were indecipherable to him. He couldn't tell if the guy was military or not. But Jack did see that over and over, Daniel would pause and the Russian would shake his head. Daniel, head down, voice subdued, became agitated, speaking faster, but before his monologue came to any sort of conclusion, their conversation was interrupted by the Russian's buddies.

They didn't look pleased, but they were pointing toward the ship's side and raising their voices. Whatever the _Yorktown_ crew had found, it was gone. The cables were slack now, the winches quiet.

Daniel took no part in the new discussion. He backed up and stood out of the way, hands in his pockets, his scarf over his mouth, just watching. He never looked Jack's way.

The Russians seemed more tense and dissatisfied than ever. Jack noticed that the man who'd been talking to Daniel had been hustled away by his colleagues, closer to the helicopter. Then, some sort of decision was reached. A few of the foreigners went below decks again. The rest spoke briefly and quietly with the remaining Yorktown officers, then ducked back inside their helicopter.

Everybody on deck seemed to hold their breath, until the Russian stragglers once again emerged and hurried aboard the bird.

Crewmen scattered. The engines whined and roared, the blades kicked around. It all seemed very anticlimactic and abrupt. Then the Russian helicopter was lifting off. Jack watched it claw into the air, heavily, almost magically. He realized Daniel had disappeared in the bustle, and Jack couldn't see him. It felt like a loss. The Red helicopter gained altitude, oriented itself in the dark sky, and headed west. Jack watched it go, and then he stood on the deck for a long time, until the distant glow of the Russian ship's beacon had also disappeared.

He didn't speak to Daniel again until they were back on the ground at Millington.

~~~~

On the _Yorktown,_ even after the strange visit from the Russians, things stayed busy. Jack's group caught a few hours of sleep in borrowed quarters, and with the dawn, they were back in the air, heading east to the mainland. Maybourne disappeared, too, with crew and passengers on the other Tracer.

Flying seemed normal. It was a relief. At the Air Force base at Anchorage, Jack was informed his piloting duties would no longer be needed now that they were Stateside again, and he became just another passenger in the giant, grinding machine of the military bureaucracy. It was a familiar feeling, but not a pleasant one.

Through all the plane changes and crew changes, he consciously kept his distance from Daniel, feeling that it was a dead cold certainty that they were being watched.

Several lousy meals and several gallons of bad coffee later, he stood on the sidewalk of the Memphis house, in a cold downpour, watching Daniel slam shut the trunk of the government car that had brought them on their last leg, home to the Ballard house from the Millington air station.

It had been a bad moment at the NAS when he had had to tell the OIC's aide that he would, actually, hitch a ride back into town with Doctor Jackson, because that's where Jack's own car was parked. Jack didn't think he had imagined the sneer in the man's eyes, or the relief when he had turned away and left Jack to go on and finish what was left of his leave.

But Jack didn't want to think about that now. He was tired and grimy and punchy from the strain and the time zone changes and the days and days of constant suspicion. Military stress, the pure and immediate danger of battle, he had plenty of experience with. But this cloak-and-dagger shit -- forget it. He didn't know how Daniel stood it. Right now, he simply wanted, with an almost animal, blind intensity, some very simple things. A hot shower. Some sleep, preferably skin to skin with the guy now pacing him up the drowned sidewalk. And Jack wanted to look into Daniel's eyes again and see something other than cool professionalism. He really, really wanted this ill-advised adventure to be over. He didn't even care any more what they fuck they had gone out there on the ocean to talk to the Commies about. His curiosity about all of that was spent. He was just glad it was over. And he was glad to be home.

He realized which word he'd picked to describe where they were, and Jack smiled to himself, as, having dashed up the walk and under the veranda, with Daniel a half step behind him, his duffel bouncing against his thigh, he pulled out his keys and opened Daniel's front door himself.

The winter rain pounded against the porch roof and splashed in the downspouts. The house was dark and chill before him, smelling of oranges and furniture polish. Jack thought, screw Maybourne. Screw Simmons. Screw the U.S. government and their spies and their plots. They were back now, and this did, indeed feel like home.

~~~~

Sweet spike of desire, stabbing through his groin, sweet wet push of Daniel's mouth on him. Jack swam up through warm shallows of sleep, and found that dreams can come true.

Blue light was lining the blinds of the big upstairs bedroom, and there were Daniel's soft sheets, sliding under his shoulder and his ear, and Jack turned his head and opened his eyes and moaned in surprise and gratified lust. Daniel, kneeling, eyes closed, was rocking Jack's hard dick against the roof of his mouth. He was holding Jack halfway in, moving gently, never pulling completely off, never pushing Jack's dick all the way down into his throat. Just a gentle oscillation, with a constant sucking pressure and the firmness of Daniel's tongue against that very sensitive spot on the underside. Daniel kept it up, not opening his eyes, and soon he had Jack panting and amazed and half-wild.

"Daniel," Jack gasped, so close, so close to the edge. Daniel opened his eyes at the sound of his name, and he smiled, spoiling the suction. He pulled off, pressing a kiss to the head.

"You're awake," he said, sounding pleased. "Get on over here." And he rolled away from Jack, onto his stomach, nudging Jack's hip with his ass.

Jack grinned. "Before breakfast? Before coffee?"

Daniel laughed, and he groped on the nightstand for the old tin of Vaseline. Not even looking back, he tossed it sloppily Jack's way.

Jack rolled and reached for it before it could bounce off the mattress to the floor. He pressed a kiss to Daniel's side, and moved up between Daniel's knees. He didn't need to be asked twice. He was hungry for this, practically desperate for it, after days of looking but not touching.

He hurriedly glopped some of the heavy thick stuff on himself and then balanced on his knees, taking hold of Daniel's gorgeous tight buttocks and bringing him closer. He'd have to get some more of the lighter lube, replace the tube he'd had to ditch in Washington. But for now, this would definitely work. Oh, yeah.

Daniel groaned his approval and shifted some of his weight to his elbows.

God, the man was beautiful. Gorgeous. Perfect ass, beautiful smooth skin, gorgeous tight hole. Jack bit his lip, stopping with his dick deliciously pressed against Daniel's ass, realizing he'd been stunned and aroused and half asleep, and only thinking about fucking, how tight Daniel would be, but forgetting how that very condition meant Daniel would probably need some help to get ready. He looked around again for the box.

"Go on, Jack. It's okay." Daniel was hoarsely insistent.

Jack raised his eyebrows, trying to think straight. "You sure?"

"I'm sure, baby, come on. I want it like this, this time."

"You're driving," Jack said, feeling uncertain. They'd never tried this, not since the first time, not since Jack in his feckless ignorance had tried sticking it in before Daniel was ready. That had been embarrassing, although it had all turned out all right in the end. Better than all right. But Daniel knew what he was doing now, and Jack was nothing if not cooperative.

He leaned his weight on his right hand, holding Daniel's hip with his left, and pushed, gently, experimentally. Daniel bloomed open for him, the slick pressure around his crown causing a rush of pleasure so intense that Jack groaned again in surprised bliss.

Daniel was groaning, too. It shouldn't be this easy, Jack thought, pushing further in, taking it very slow. It was almost too much, too hot, to imagine. Gorgeous Daniel, talented brilliant Daniel, taking this from him. Taking it.

Jack's thoughts fragmented, scattering in sparkling shards like sunlight through the stained glass that framed the bedroom windows. He pushed, and Daniel pushed right back, demanding a rhythm that was unexpected in its speed and urgency.

"Daniel," Jack called. "Baby."

Daniel moaned his name, rocking against him, so hard, so tight and fast.

It was too much. It was irresistible. Jack fell into it, stopped trying to think, just held himself carefully braced against Daniel's thrusts, his hips slapping Daniel's ass. Too much, too good. He couldn't hold out against this pleasure, or against Daniel's need.

His climax was powerful -- days of pent-up anxiety seemed to release out of him all at once. He groaned, and came, practically blacking out. And when he roused himself from his half-asleep, sweaty collapse, searching for Daniel's erection, wanting to make sure that he didn't get left behind, willing for him to come, too, to get his share of this incredible thing they could do for each other, a spike of arousal slammed along his thighs, chasing the ebb of his orgasm. Because Daniel's dick was wet and half-hard. Daniel had come already, just from that, just from Jack fucking him.

Jack collapsed again, making incoherent, satisfied purring noises, his chest pressed against Daniel's spine, Daniel's dick cradled in his hand. Daniel fumbled, and grabbed Jack's hip, pressing him even closer against Daniel's ass.

"Oh, god, Jack," Daniel said.

"Love you," Jack said, responding instinctively, no conscious decision at all, to the emotion he heard in Daniel's voice, the way Daniel said his name.

Then he froze, realizing too late what had come out of his mouth. There had been a line that he'd thought was drawn, once, about things like that. A line blocking as off-limits sweet names like "baby". Keeping him, keeping guys doing what they were doing, away from big scary important words like "love". There was a line that marked the rules of this game for lonely men. Jack couldn't find that line anymore. He didn't know the rules any more. He had actually blurted out the word. He had thought it, more than once, but he had thought he wouldn't, shouldn't say it. He didn't know what it meant. His body flooded with adrenaline again, and his hand must have twitched on Daniel's dick.

But Daniel only moaned a little, a precious sound, and held Jack's hip tighter.

"I love you, too, Jack," he said, and he sounded so surprised.

Jack squeezed his eyes shut and tried to breathe. He wormed one arm beneath Daniel, under his ribcage, and let go of his dick to get his right arm around his chest. He held Daniel tight against him, squeezing the breath out of him, and Daniel held just as tightly to his hip.

_Holy mother of god,_ Jack thought. _What did I just do._

"It just came out," he said, his lips stiff. "I didn't... I..."

"I love you, too, Jack," Daniel repeated, more quietly, but just as certain.

Jack held on to him, as if Daniel were some kind of life raft and the bed was a stormy sea. He felt as if the top of his head were going to blow off. He didn't know what to think, what to say into the fraught silence. He hovered there for a while, trying to find his place.

Daniel squirmed in his grip, and Jack didn't want to let go of him. But Daniel, insistent as ever, turned, and Jack, eyes still squeezed shut against the immensity of what was happening, felt Daniel's lips on his. Daniel kissed him, tenderly, urgently, and Jack kissed him back. It felt good. It felt like a salve.

"Look at me," Daniel said. Jack opened his eyes. And the brave, crazy bastard said it again. So Jack kissed him again, as if he could swallow the words, take them in, understand them that way. Kissed him until Daniel, too, was breathless.

And then Daniel closed his eyes, and snuggled against him, relaxed completely, and Jack felt him ease away, back down into sleep.

Eventually, they got up. They showered, and they wandered around the house. Jack had a cigarette. Daniel made some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. The bread was stale. The milk had spoiled. They drank black coffee because it was that or tap water. There was no ice.

They sat down to eat at the table in the little breakfast nook off the kitchen. Jack thought the silence was awkward, but Daniel seemed like himself. He didn't seem nervous, or upset. He was a little distracted, though. After Daniel had wolfed down his second sandwich, he reached for his coffee cup with one hand and covered Jack's hand with the other.

He said, absently, "We'll have to go out and get some food, in a while. And you're probably about out of cigarettes."

Jack nodded. Daniel's hand on his was warm and dry. It felt wonderful. He turned his hand over and grasped Daniel's, like a quiet handshake, there by the salt shaker. Daniel smiled into his coffee mug. Then he met Jack's eyes, still smiling. He hadn't put his glasses on. It made it look like he was still in bed.

Daniel said, "I'm not supposed to tell you everything about what went on out there, and I won't. But I am going to tell you that those were Soviet scientists, from their military satellite program. Yorktown and some other Navy vessels had marked the location of what probably is wreckage from the rocket that launched Sputnik, and we managed to convince them to send some of their people out there to rendezvous with us and to see if we could bring it up."

"Wow," Jack said.

Daniel looked at his plate again. "There's a lot more going on in regard to that trip we made that I am not allowed to talk about, but at least that's some of it."

Jack pondered what he'd seen, out there in the Pacific. The strange collection of people who had come along with him and Daniel. Maybourne. The Russian guy Daniel had talked to, so urgently, so quietly. "They've certainly scared the shit out of our military."

"And scared generals do scary things." Daniel looked at a corner of the ceiling and sighed, apparently a million miles away in his head. But he held on to Jack's hand.

"About that," Jack said, squeezing Daniel's hand. Daniel looked at him, his gaze getting intent and very _present_. "Can we go out on the porch? I gotta tell you the latest about Simmons, and for that, I definitely need a smoke."

Daniel let go of his hand, and got up, and stuffed his hands in his robe pockets and led the way out, not pausing to find his coat, despite the cold. But it didn't have to be a long conversation.

~~~~

Shopping for groceries. Waiting, listening to some LPs, while Daniel made phone calls to the university, and to someone he addressed as Miss Rachel. Dinner. More sex, leisurely and careful. Another shower.

Jack was lying in the dark, his head on Daniel's chest. Daniel was petting his hair. He was half asleep. It was very soothing. He felt clean again, the travel grime and the stink of fear and adrenaline finally off of him.

Daniel said, "Have you ever been in love before?"

Jack's heart spiked, just once, and settled. His hand had been resting on Daniel's shoulder, and he closed it around the bulge of muscle there. He found he had the words to answer Daniel, and, furthermore, that he wanted to say them.

"No. Never have."

"I know you shocked yourself, saying that, but I wanted to hear it. I've been wanting to hear it and wanting to say it, for a while now, but, you know."

"I know."

"Guys. Illicit. Illegal..."

"I know. You don't..."

"I know. I don't have to explain." Daniel sighed and shifted, as if he were pacing the floor, there inside his head. Jack let go of his shoulder and began stroking his arm.

Daniel went on, "I want to do this. I don't know what it is, what to call it. But I know for certain that I love you. And I want to do this."

"Me, too," Jack said, and it was such a restful, joyous feeling. He let the feeling wash over him, and he kept petting Daniel's arm. Daniel cupped the side of his head, almost protectively.

"Good. That's good, then."

It felt different, the next morning, when Jack slid behind the wheel of his Fairlane and turned the key, Daniel standing there by the driver's side door, bundled against the cold. It had stopped raining, but the wind was icy. Jack said, silently, _Come on, girl,_ because the car had sat there for over two weeks, in the cold, but the engine caught right away with a happy, deep thrum. Jack looked up at Daniel, standing there, and rolled the window halfway down. It was a long drive, back to Pensacola. He would arrive after the quick winter dusk had fallen.

In the kitchen, Jack's duffel packed and ready, their coats on, Jack had hugged him tight, and they had kissed. It was so domestic, someone staying in a warm coffee-scented kitchen, someone going off again, back to work, with no real guarantee of when they would be together again. Jack had thought, confusedly, of his parents, of his sister and her sailor husband. He stood there in Daniel's kitchen and felt his embrace, finally, reluctantly, eased away from his mouth and looked into his eyes.

"I'll miss you," Daniel had said.

"I'll keep in touch," Jack answered, and Daniel had smiled.

Daniel's expression hadn't changed. It was still thoughtful, his brow a little furrowed, out here under the gray and heavy sky.

Jack decided he'd try it out. He glanced around, making sure there were no neighbors or stealthy garbage men or meter readers in the alley. He pulled in a breath, let it out.

"Love you," he said.

Daniel grinned at him. Really grinned, like sunshine. Like a summer sky. He stepped back, away from the car. Jack sighed, and put the Ford in gear and his foot on the gas. He didn't want to go. But it was time. He watched Daniel, in the side mirror, in the rear view, until he got to the corner.


	10. Chapter 10

It was raining in Pensacola, too, and Jack hadn't been paying enough attention to the sky to figure out whether it was the same system that had rained on them in Tennessee or something unrelated.

It was dark and chilly and wet and messy when he parked his Fairlane on the base and dragged himself inside. His quarters were deserted; he had just a few brain cells to spare to try to remember the schedule, figure out where the guys were this week and if he was going to have to travel a million miles again in the morning to catch them up. It seemed like he'd been gone forever, and the place had a smell. It usually didn't even register on him, but it was there this time -- old menthol smoke and spray starch and dust and the ever present faint waft of dirty socks.

He tore off his top layer of clothing, and fell into his bunk to sleep.

At mess the next morning, he felt a tap on the shoulder. It was one of the base commander's aides.

"Warren, hey." He knew the guy; they'd played poker plenty of times. But Warren wouldn't return his friendly smile.

"Soon as you finish here, go see Morris. You've got some news."

"Morris?" That wasn't happy. Morris was the paper pusher, the bureaucrat. The conduit through which orders and requisitions flowed.

"Morris. Now." And Warren turned away without another word.

Jack pushed his tray aside and leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. He knew even this slight delay was pushing it, since he'd been told to go right now, but a trip to the front office called for a little procrastination. And he noticed, with a sinking feeling, that the hair on his neck was riffling again.

He'd been gone a long time, on this escapade of Daniel's. Too long? He smoked his one cigarette, a fleeting joy, and went to face the music.

"Lieutenant O'Neill, sir?" he ventured. Morris looked up, mousy sleek hair, perfect uniform. He acknowledged Jack's salute.

"Oh, yes. O'Neill. Separated from your heavenly flock, I believe?"

The man's glance was cold, but that was nothing new. Most of the guys stationed here tried to avoid Morris on principle. He enjoyed his work, and that was scary. Jack came further into the office and stood there, waiting, eyebrows raised. Morris didn't invite him to sit down. There was a silence. Jack figured he should fill it with something.

"The team went on to San Diego this week, sir. While I was overseas."

Morris stared up at him from behind his desk. "Yes," he said, and his undertone was, "_I know that, you fool."_

Jack waited. Morris flipped through some files on his desk, and found a sheaf of paper. He held it out, looking like he'd just eaten a lemon. Jack frowned, and stepped up and took it from him.

"You have new orders, Lieutenant."

"New orders?"

"Yes," Morris said crisply. "You've been reassigned." And he looked down, away from Jack's shocked stare.

Jack skimmed the formal, dense language. It was perfectly true. He was being reassigned, to Norfolk. To the _Forrestal_. To carrier duty. He looked through the other papers in the stack, quickly, but there was no notice of disciplinary action, no warning, no nothing. Just the orders shipping him out. The next fucking morning.

He was off the team. He was being busted back down to flying training missions off a carrier.

He squeezed his hand, crumpling the papers a bit.

"What's this all about, sir?" His voice sounded strained.

Morris wouldn't look at him. "I'm sure I don't know, Lieutenant. Dismissed."

Jack was distantly surprised that his legs would carry him out the door.

He wasn't imagining the cold shoulder he got from everyone he knew, after that, including Warren, and the other guys he used to play poker with. Gossip, it seemed, had spread very effectively. His team was gone, so he didn't even get to say goodbye or have the satisfaction of confronting Holly and demanding some answers. Instead, he had nothing. People's glances slid right past him.

The next 24 hours were frantic. He packed up his things. He followed his instructions. He found someone to sell the Fairlane for him and send on the money. He wrote to his mother. He tried to call Daniel; there was no answer.

He knew. He knew without a doubt what was going on.

This had Simmons written all over it.

~~~~

He was barely in time, it turned out, to catch the _Forrestal_. She was due to leave port the day after he arrived. Before he found his berth, before just about anything, still quite numb, he found a pay phone in the lobby of a bar near the docks, and tried again to reach Daniel.

He'd called twice already, at odd moments while he was in transit, after the shock wore off and he'd achieved a kind of numb acceptance, but the phone had rung and rung in the big Memphis house and no one had answered.

He supposed Daniel was teaching again; the winter term must have started while they were away together. He didn't have a number for Daniel at Memphis State. He supposed Daniel had an office there; he could try to look up the History Department and somehow reach him. That seemed cumbersome, like something he'd only do in case of emergency. This wasn't an emergency, exactly. So reaching Daniel at work would be his last resort.

Now it was late in the afternoon of his very last day on shore, and he tried again. He dialed the number by heart, and listened to the ringing. He wanted to hear Daniel's voice one more time. He wanted to tell him what had happened. It would be painful, but he wanted to _talk_ to the guy. He didn't want to write this on a fucking postcard.

"Daniel Jackson."

Jack's knees went weak with relief; a surge of quivery happiness mixed with pain.

"It's Jack."

"Hello! Wow! I guess you got back okay. This must be costing you a mint! How are you?"

"Listen -- I've got some bad news."

"What is it?"

"I think you better be careful. I, ah, I got sent away. Off the Blue Angels."

"_What?_"

"I got... they're sending me offshore. I'm in Norfolk right now. I leave port tomorrow on the _Forrestal_."

"Norfolk, Virginia?"

"Yeah."

"They're _shipping_ you _out?!_" It was good to hear Daniel's outrage. It made up for all the blank stares, all the furtive whispers, back in Florida.

"Yeah."

"Jesus."

"I know."

"You think this is..."

"Yeah, I do."

"Retribution.... This is my fault. You've lost your slot with the team; it's because--"

"Daniel. Stop it."

"Godammit, Jack, that fucking asshole is behind this. He's got to be. We've got to...." Daniel trailed off, thinking. Jack could practically hear the wheels turning. It was weirdly comforting.

Into Daniel's silence, he said, "I'm serious. Be careful. I agree that this was some kind of--"

"Jack. I'm so sorry. This is my fault."

"I told you; stop it."

They both said nothing for a moment, listening to each other's silence. It helped, so fucking much, to have the open line, to have Daniel's voice, to hear him. It didn't solve anything, but it let Jack cut through the numbness that had engulfed him ever since he had to take his paperwork from that worm Morris and just walk away.

"So you're going out on... is that a carrier?"

"Yeah, a big new carrier."

"Will you get to fly?" Daniel's voice broke when he said that, and it made Jack smile, made his heart swell.

"Yes. Yes. It looks like I'll still get to fly."

"_Jack...._"

"I know. Listen, I better go, but..."

"...Yeah."

"Me, too...."

"Oh my god: How long will you be out?"

Jack swallowed. This was the hard part. "Six months."

"Six. Months."

"Yes." Silence. "I gotta go, Daniel. I wanted... I wanted to call, though."

"I'm so glad you did. I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry--"

"Hey. Just. Watch your back. I'm just saying."

"Jack."

"... Bye, baby." It was a slip, but he couldn't help it.

Jack pushed the lever to break the connection, and waited for the operator to tell him what the damage, exactly, was.

When he finally arrived at his assigned bunk, after endless hours of the usual hurry-up-and-wait, and the mad scramble of getting a ship to sea, there was something waiting for him.

On his mattress, there rested a brand new, shiny, aluminum dog dish. Inside it lay a slip of paper. The message on it was typed, in capital letters. It read: "Bon voyage, pet."

Jack carefully, calmly, picked up the dish and the slip of paper and stalked on deck and threw them both over the side.

~~~~

_It could be worse._

Jack told himself that, day after day, week after week. It became his prayer, his catch phrase, his good-luck charm.

He tried, quietly, to find out what had happened. Who had ordered this. What grounds had been given for pulling him from his prestigious spot with the Blue Angels. But unfortunately, as he could have told Maybourne on the _Yorktown_, he didn't have strings to pull. Unlike some of his colleagues, he'd gotten all his promotions, all his citations, on merit alone. He had no connections. He was nobody; just a schmuck from Chicago that had enlisted to fight the Communists and had fallen in love with the sky and had done better for himself than he'd ever dreamed.

And now it had all blown up in his face.

He had a lot of time to think. He figured Simmons didn't have outright proof of his relationship with Daniel, or he'd be out of the Navy altogether, or brought up on charges, punished, exposed. Simmons' pressure had apparently been enough to get him demoted and exiled, and that was plenty bad.

He'd been due for a promotion, too, and he learned that that was put off, in light of his reassignment and pending ... some kind of review. Bureaucratic gobbledygook. He knew bullshit when he heard it.

He had Boyd to talk to, at least, even though he was sure whoever was behind this had put him with someone he knew in hopes that he'd spill something. Confess something about Daniel.

Boyd knew Daniel, of course, or at least he might remember him, but Jack never mentioned his name and Boyd never brought him up.

So, it could be worse.

For one thing, as he had told Daniel, he did still get to fly.

The _Forrestal_, as the big shiny show-off carrier, had been the first of the fleet to get her Cougars replaced with the F11 Tigers that Jack had flown with the... had flown stateside. So that was good.

The ship went to the Mediterranean, to warm friendly waters, and all new ports to Jack, and they did a lot of showing the flag and schmoozing with allies. And so the pilots practiced, and drilled, and trained. Lots of training, lots of teaching again. It was okay. He was busy, mostly.

He sent Daniel careful, neutral postcards. Like he always had.

Two months in, a guy who slept in the bunk two over from his made a pass at him. Through the whole thing, a voice kept singing in Jack's head: _Plant. Plant. Plant._

The guy, Fisher was his name, a maintenance supervisor, caught Jack on a ladder one day. Hand on his shoulder, pulling him around.

"O'Neill," the guy said, low and urgent, and left his hand on Jack's shoulder. Jack pushed it off. He didn't answer; he stared. He'd actually been expecting something like this.

Fisher continued, sounding secretive, "There's no one around. So. Is there something I can do for you?"

Jack shoved the guy so hard he bounced off the railing of the landing.

"What the fuck," Fisher said, catching his balance, half falling. Jack came in close again, grabbed his lapels and hauled him upright.

"We don't like your kind on this ship," Jack said through clenched teeth.

"Take it easy," Fisher said, and both his hands came up, covering Jack's wrists. Gently. The guy licked his lips.

Jack shoved him away. Fisher, ready this time, kept his balance.

Jack said, "One more stunt like that and I turn you in. Understand?"

"For what?" Fisher said, leaning back against the rail, arms out, cocking his hips. Jack narrowed his eyes. "For being a fag like you? We all know why you got busted back here."

Jack clenched his fists, but kept his distance. "I'm not the one making the propositions here, cupcake. You heard what I said. Leave me the fuck alone, or you'll wish you'd never been born."

"Don't threaten me, O'Neill."

"I don't make threats. That was not a threat." Jack clattered away, down the ladder the way he'd been heading, leaving Fisher there.

So that was bad. But the worst thing? When they made port, and there was mail call, there was nothing for him. Nothing from his family, nothing from Daniel. Nothing. The days went by, winter turning to lush spring, and Jack tried not to count them.

~~~~

Jack stood on the sidewalk in front of the familiar red-brick house, and finished his cigarette and dropped it and ground it savagely into the concrete with the ball of his foot.

It had been a cool day in Norfolk when he drove away, the air soft and cloudy, but as he'd driven inland, the miles spooling under the wheels of his borrowed Chevy, he'd arrived, county by dreaming county, in summertime. The sky was white here in Memphis, and the humidity pressed on him even though it was only ten o'clock in the morning. Memphis, according to the radio announcers, was having a heat wave.

Maybe he'd been wrong to come. God knows he'd tried to talk himself out of it, that last month on the water, homeward bound, but the bone-deep necessity of making this trip had clawed at him, dragged at him, all the long way back, and all the day that they'd docked and been welcomed back in.

Six months, and no letters. No word. Nothing.

After the first few weeks, he'd tried to put Daniel out of his mind. When he couldn't stand it, he'd dash off a postcard, put it with the ones he was sending off to his mom and his sister, and then try to file Daniel away, somewhere that had nothing to do with the work, the flying, the ocean.

He'd tried to lose himself. Over the weeks, the time he wasn't flying became drudgery; the times he was became a mind-filling ecstasy; his only joy. He tried to daydream about his plane, Dolores, and not about Daniel. He'd tried to think always and only about flying and not about the man who lived in this house. Or what they did here. Used to do here. What Jack, in those long nights in the narrow bunk in the belly of the _Forrestal_, had begun to believe he would never do again.

Those nights, he'd thought about himself. See, he used to be able to walk away from things. He used to be able to accept that people came into your life and left, that no one but his family would ever really stay, that in war you lost people, and in life you did, too, even in peacetime, and most of all you lost people in the hidden anonymous game that was the only kind of connection possible for the kind of man he was. He'd tried to accept that there was really nothing you could hold on to. Nothing you could count on. He'd walked away from Maybourne, though he wondered sometimes if Maybourne had tried to hold on and Jack had refused to see it. He'd walked away from a handful of other guys. That was how it had to be.

Until Daniel.

And now he'd tried, hard, to put Daniel in that category -- the category of things you just had to let go of, whether you wanted to or not.

He'd tried to say that no news was news. That he knew a brush-off when he saw it. That Daniel had felt guilt, felt shame, felt so much that was bad, that he couldn't go on. That whatever good they'd had couldn't outweigh the risks. That silence was his answer.

But somewhere deeper than that, some quiet voice inside Jack knew better. He'd noted that not only was he not getting mail from Daniel, he wasn't getting mail from anyone. And he knew that his mom wouldn't fail to write any more than Daniel would fail. He had a feeling there was something going on, still. That Simmons wasn't done fucking with him.

And yet. And yet. It was a long time, a long lonely time to hold on to those memories. He'd been away from Daniel for about as long as he'd been with him, now.

So. He'd tried to talk himself into letting it go -- even had tried to say it would be safer for Daniel, better for Daniel, if he did.  
But there was always that inner voice, arguing with him when he tried to say it was over. An inner voice as strong as the voice that had urged him to enlist, to try for pilot school. And it was that voice that had made him borrow a car from one of the other carrier pilots, a guy who lived in Norfolk and was coming home to his wife and kids. It was that voice bidding him come back to Memphis, even if it was for one last time. Even if it was to say goodbye, forever.

That voice was unshakeable in its insistence that Daniel had meant it, those tender incredible things he'd said to Jack the last time they'd been together.

So much good and so much bad, that last time. It burned in Jack's memory to replay it, after the silent months, but as he'd driven west, he'd replayed those words, those touches, anyway. And Jack still had his key to the Ballard place, carefully kept, like a treasure.

And so, when _Forrestal_ finally came to home port, this was Jack's first destination. Not Chicago. He hadn't even called his mother yet. She and his sister thought he was still at sea. He had made his deal, to borrow the Chevy, and he had hit the road.

So, now, finishing his cigarette, here on Daniel's sidewalk, everything about the house, the lawn, looking exactly the same, Jack tried to quash his fears, hopefully for the last time, for better or for worse. He put on his game face. He squared his shoulders just exactly as if he were at attention on the deck of the _Forrestal_, standing there in front of Dolores waiting for the order to scramble, and he marched himself up those old brick stairs and knocked sharply three times and put his key in the lock and turned it.

He listened. He frowned. There was a muffled noise, coming from the downstairs, from past the red dining room, somewhere in the back. A noise he'd never heard in this house before, but after a moment he could place it. It was a vacuum cleaner. A big electric vacuum cleaner. The last time he'd heard that noise was over half a year ago, at his mom's. Someone was vacuuming. Jack smiled. So far, so good.

"Hello?" he called, and slipped his keys in the pocket of his chinos and jingled them. No one answered. "Daniel?" he ventured. Nothing.

So he followed the sound. The vacuum cleaner got louder, as he went past the foot of the stairs and down the back hall. He approached the room with the piano, treading carefully on the newly mopped oak flooring, and pretty soon he could hear singing, too. But it was a woman's voice.

He stopped in the door of the music room. A heavyset woman in a maid's uniform was vacuuming around and under the big grand piano, singing what sounded like an old hymn. Jack couldn't make out the words for the noise of the sweeper.

Jack exhaled sharply. Daniel had a cleaning lady. Who knew. He was flooded with misplaced adrenaline. He felt impatient and worried and ridiculous.

He rapped his knuckles on the doorjamb, as loudly as he could. "Excuse me!" he barked.

The woman started and turned, dropping the handle of the Hoover and pressing her hands to her chest.

"Lord have mercy," she shouted. "You just took ten years off my life."

"Sorry," Jack said, gruffly, standing straighter and shoving his hands in his pockets. The woman bent, grunting a little, and shut off the vacuum cleaner. She came closer, wiping her hands on her apron and frowning up at Jack.

"I'm looking--"

"You must be--"

They spoke at the same time, and the woman laughed and Jack stopped, biting his lip. He waved her on. "Go ahead."

"I was just going to say, you must be Lieutenant O'Neill."

Jack's face cleared, but then he frowned again. Daniel's cleaning lady knew who he was?

"That's me," Jack said.

"I'm Miz Keller," she said. "I would have known you anywhere, the way Doctor Jackson described you, but why are you here?"

"I beg your pardon?" Jack said, his mind racing. Keller -- wasn't that the name of the bar owner who had been the reason for their introduction, so long ago? The events of that night, Kawalsky's rudeness, Daniel's irresistible glances, were seared into his memory. The cleaning lady knew him, and was asking him why was he here? He didn't know what to do with the question. Daniel might have mentioned him to this woman, but there was no way Jack could answer her. His face must have shown his mental gridlock.

"Lord have mercy," she said again, and she came closer and put her hand on his elbow. "You don't know. Nobody told you. Mr. O'Neill, you'd best get up to the hospital. Right away."

"The hospital?" Jack croaked.

"Doctor Jackson got himself beaten up real bad. It was last weekend, because of the rally for Reverend King."

Jack stood there, his mouth open, like a beached fish.

"I haven't been over there myself, you understand. Doctor Jordan called me. Not his own doctor -- you know. The Ancient Egypt doctor from Memphis State. Now, you don't need to be standing here. They've got him over at Baptist, right downtown. Get on with you. Get!" She slapped his arm with the back of her hand, very much like his own mother would have done, and Jack backed up. He turned in the doorway and headed for the front of the house.

Daniel wasn't here. Daniel was in the hospital. A cold knot began to form in the pit of Jack's stomach.

Somehow his legs carried him out. As he closed the big door behind him, he heard the Hoover start up again.

The cold knot spread, sending numbing shock along his arms and legs. He missed one of the stairs, stumbled, and ran down the sidewalk to his borrowed car.

~~~~

Daniel's room, by the numbers, was at the very end of a long corridor, and Jack felt his legs getting rubbery again the closer he got. Visiting hours had not quite begun when he arrived, and a balefully glaring nurse had made him wait in a very uncomfortable chair for eleven minutes until she grandly waved him down the hall.

Jack stopped in front of Daniel's room, thought about cigarettes, and thought about knocking on the door. He decided not to knock, because, what if Daniel was asleep? He had no idea what to expect, and that that scared the crap out of him in about six different ways. Holding his breath, he eased the door open.

The room was cooler than the hall, and the blinds were drawn. Daniel, Jack could see, as his eyes adjusted to the low light, was indeed in the bed, unmoving and hopefully asleep, under the far window. The bed nearer the door was empty. Jack exhaled, never taking his eyes from Daniel, and crept around the wall to his bed's far side. He sat down in a chair that was already pulled conveniently close.

Daniel. After all these months. Jack reached for the metal bedrail and hung on. He looked Daniel over. He didn't see a cast, which relieved him, and he leaned closer, looking for signs of injury. His heart was pounding.

_What happened to you? Dammit, Daniel!_

Daniel's face was turned toward him, and he lay on his back. Jack didn't think he was deeply asleep; it was more of a doze. Funny; how he could still judge that after all this time. Long afternoons of sleeping and waking and fucking came in handy for judging the sleep patterns of your lover. Jack winced at the memories, at the word. God, it felt like forever since he had seen this man. Emotion and worry flooded his gut.

There were stitches in Daniel's forehead -- about a dozen, it looked like, closing a gash at his temple. His hair had been shaved around the stitches. And there were fading yellowish bruises there, too. His arms were outside the covers, sprawled comfortably, and Jack could see healing scabs on his forearms, as if they'd been scraped raw, but nothing that looked really serious. There were no tubes running out from under the covers, and nothing that might mean his bones were broken. The outline of his legs looked okay.

But there had to be other injuries that couldn't be seen, Jack was sure, or Daniel wouldn't be here. Jack started to calm down. He was sitting so close, leaning in, but he didn't want to move back. He wanted to get closer. He was here, in Daniel's presence, after all these scary silent months, close enough to hear him breathing. Jack glanced around the room. There was a sweating pitcher, and a glass with a straw, on the far nightstand. He glanced at the closed door. The nurse could come in at any moment, but if she did, Jack would hear the door.

He hitched the chair even closer, and he took Daniel's hand. It was cool, and limply relaxed under the quick curl of Jack's fingers. Jack clenched his teeth. He brought his other hand up, to hold Daniel's in both his own. Then he bent over and touched his forehead to the back of Daniel's hand, just for a moment. He wanted to kiss it, but he didn't quite dare.

God, what had happened here.

He sat up again. He tried not to squeeze Daniel's hand, just hold it, and watch him breathe. He watched the way Daniel's eyelashes fell against his cheek, and carefully counted his stitches again. Daniel had shaved, or been shaved, recently -- maybe the day before, Jack judged. That had to be a good sign.

Daniel turned his head further toward Jack. His fingers tightened. A shockwave poured down Jack's legs. Daniel opened his eyes.

He seemed puzzled at first, his eyes unfocused. He squeezed Jack's hand.

"Jack," he said. "Are you really here?"

" 'Fraid so," Jack said, squeezing back. It was hard to talk around the lump in his chest.

Daniel just stared at him, blinking, trying to focus. Jack glanced at the table, but Daniel's glasses weren't there.

"What hap--" Jack started, and then he started to laugh, almost hysterically, because Daniel was saying the same thing, his voice clogged and raspy. Jack began to reflexively pet the back of Daniel's hand. They were both quiet for a moment, staring.

Jack frowned. He found he was leaning closer again, almost unwillingly, but his body was doing something without his volition. He knew how crazy it was, how risky, but he leaned forward and closed his eyes and pressed a dry quick kiss to Daniel's mouth.

"I leave for five minutes and look what happens," he breathed, pulling away and straightening in his chair as soon as the kiss was over. Eyes still closed, he licked his lips, wishing he could taste more of Daniel than that. He didn't let go of Daniel's hand.

Daniel stared at him, still apparently amazed to see him.

"Five minutes, six months, same difference," Daniel said, and he looked so serious. He turned his head away then, quickly, looking toward the door. Jack glanced up, thinking Daniel had heard someone coming, but there was no one. Jack had almost let go of Daniel's hand, but when he realized they wouldn't be interrupted after all, he kept hold of it. He cleared his throat.

"Daniel, what happened to you? Your cleaning lady said you were beaten up, at a rally."

"Yes." Daniel said, still looking away, and he slowly raised his free hand to his face. He pressed his fingers against his eyes.

"What happened?" Jack repeated, softly. _God, Daniel...._

"The police did this," Daniel said crisply, turning his face back to Jack and dropping his hand. His eyes were red. Jack frowned. Was that why he'd turned away? To hide tears? Jack squeezed his hand tighter, trying to listen. "Martin Luther King was speaking, ten days ago, I don't know exactly. What day is it? The rally was on the seventh. And the crowd was quite large, and the police decided it was too large, too ... uppity. And they broke it up. I was far from the only one who was hurt." He looked away and closed his eyes, as if it tired him to say so much. He sounded hoarse and exhausted.

"Jesus," Jack said. It was all he could find to say.

"They said I have a concussion, and some cracked ribs."

"Someone kicked you in the head," Jack said, hardly bearing to comprehend it.

Daniel stared at the ceiling. He was still holding tight to Jack's hand. "Very possibly. I don't really remember."

Jack exhaled, trying to take it all in. This was wrong. This was all kinds of wrong. He knew Daniel -- he could easily imagine that Daniel would try to help the Negro cause, would get personally involved. He couldn't imagine Daniel as someone who would be able to sit by and simply observe the rising insistence on justice, the calls for voter's rights, right here in his hometown. Jack had never been directly involved in any of the civil rights debates, and he'd spent the last six months overseas. But he could imagine some of the things Daniel had seen and heard. And it was not difficult to predict what side Daniel would be on.

"The police did this to you."

"Yes, Jack," Daniel said, with a bitter chuckle. "My memory is very clear about that part."

Jack was seized by a sudden desire to pack Daniel up by any means he could and get him home. He squeezed his hand again.

"Ouch," Daniel said.

"Sorry," Jack said, and let go. That made Daniel frown, but it seemed too awkward to reach for him again. Jack scrubbed his damp palms along his thighs and watched as Daniel gingerly, biting his lip, shifted his position, getting more on his left side, so that he could watch Jack. He started to adjust his own pillow, awkwardly trying to scrunch it, and Jack quickly leaned and helped him fold it over to prop up his head.

"God, I'd like to get out of here," Daniel said, as if reading Jack's mind once again.

"Where are your glasses?" Jack said, looking around.

"I don't know, now that you mention it. I might have lost them. I haven't been able to read much. The concussion gives you a splendid headache. Better than any hangover."

"Dammit, Daniel," Jack said, clenching his teeth.

"What? I was just trying to read a little -- just the newspaper. It's not like I--"

"I hate this," Jack said, looking away. "I don't give a damn that you were trying to read. Read if you can. Whatever. I hate this. This is wrong."

They were silent again. When Jack felt he could look at Daniel without standing up and kicking his chair against the plaster, he looked. Daniel was regarding him gravely, almost longingly.

"It's really good to see you," Daniel said after a few moments. "Did I say that already?"

"It's good to see you too," Jack said, gruff, still angrier than words could express.

Daniel let his head sink back on the pillow again and covered his eyes with his hand. All his movements were a little slow, a little awkward, because of the pain or the drugs or both, Jack figured.

"There's more," Daniel said. "Was there a guard outside when you got here?"

"No," Jack said, surprised and alarmed all over again. "Were the police actually going to _arrest_ you?"

"At one point they were thinking about it. But that's not the thing -- Jack." Daniel reached, scrabbled fingertips against Jack's arm. Jack leaned closer. "I'm pretty sure I was a, a target. Beyond the police breaking up a civil rights rally, trying to discourage the voter registration, I mean. That was going on, all around me; people getting beaten, getting hoses turned on them -- that had ... that was going on all around the perimeter of the crowd. But I think..." he trailed off, and swallowed, as if it was hard to speak, or he was running out of energy.

Jack put a hand on his shoulder and Daniel leaned into it. But he kept his hand over his eyes.

The door began to open, and as soon as he heard the hinges creak, Jack sat back in his chair and folded his arms.

It was a doctor, Jack assumed, because of the white coat -- a middle-aged man with a harassed air, trailed by a nurse. Not the supervisor Jack had tangled with earlier; someone much younger and prettier.

Jack stood up. Daniel tried to get up on his right elbow. It was an effort.

"Professor Jackson; how are we doing today."

"Better, I think."

The doctor, ignoring Jack entirely, leaned over and looked at Daniel's stitches.

"Easy there," he said as Daniel still struggled to sit up. "Nurse?" the doctor said, but Jack was already helping, with an arm under Daniel's shoulder, letting him lean, then easing him to sitting when he felt Daniel's weight shift.

Jack got out of the way then, dodging the questioning glances of the nurse and the doctor, and stood at the foot of the bed, near the wall.

"This is a friend of mine from the jazz club -- Jack O'Neill."

"Another jazz fan," the doctor muttered absently, listening to Daniel's heart. Then he took a pen light from his pocket and looked at Daniel's pupils. "Excuse us, please, Mr. O'Neill," the doctor said, as the nurse began to pull the privacy curtain around Daniel's bed.

"It's all right; I don't mind," Daniel said, earning himself a similar skeptical glance from the doctor.

_Careful, Danny,_ Jack thought, but he kept his face neutral, and he didn't move or offer to excuse himself.

Assisted by the nurse, the doctor helped Daniel out of his gown, exposing strapping around his ribs, which only partially covered some truly spectacular bruising. It was mostly faded now, but Jack could see that "beating" was not an overstatement. He clenched his jaw in order to stop a shocked intake of breath. He made himself stay still and wait, as Daniel winced his way through the exam. It still hurt him to breathe deeply, apparently, but the doctor seemed satisfied.

As Daniel was getting back into his gown, and waiting while the nurse tied the strings in the back, he said, "When can I be released, Doctor Lane?"

The doctor replaced his stethoscope around his neck, and put his hands on his hips. "Well, soon, I think, but you know, I've been reluctant to let you go home knowing that you live alone. We discussed this earlier."

"Jack is staying with me for a few days," Daniel said, his voice carefully neutral. "He just got in from the East Coast."

"Is he," the doctor said, meeting Daniel's eyes. There was an awkward silence. Whether Daniel was assuming that Jack would stay, or making that up to get Lane to release him, it made Jack happy to hear Daniel say it. Because that's what he wanted, too.

"I'd really like to go home, Doctor. Jack can look after me and I promise to follow your instructions."

Lane nodded. "I'll see what I can do," he said, and he left, with never a glance at Jack.

When they were gone, and the door had closed again behind them, Jack uncrossed his arms.

"Home sounds good," he said.

"Does it ever. Now come over here and help me lie the fuck down again. I hate this."

"You and me both," Jack said, and went over to put his hands on Daniel again.


	11. Chapter 11

The staff at Baptist had given Daniel a set of crutches, because of the deep bruising that was still making his right leg stiff and sore, but Jack left them in the back seat of the Chevy and let Daniel lean, hard, on his shoulder, Jack's arm firmly around Daniel's waist, all the way up the sidewalk and into the house.

Daniel's home was silent in the tired, late-afternoon sunshine; Mrs. Keller was nowhere to be seen, but the downstairs smelled of furniture polish and soap and lilacs. The clean, comforting scents rushed out at Jack when he opened the front door. The house was dark and cool. Pausing in the middle of the big room, letting Daniel gather his strength again before they attempted the stairs, Jack could see, through the wide arch, a shallow glass bowl filled with Daniel's mother's purple lilacs in the center of the dining table.

They made their slow way upstairs. Jack bit his lip and let Daniel set their pace. Amazingly, he felt no impatience at all; he was strangely calm considering the mad scramble he'd been in since docking in Norfolk. He'd been worried, and missing Daniel, and worried he shouldn't be missing Daniel, and then he'd been angry and worried in a whole different way. In any case, the nagging itch he'd been feeling since leaving Virginia was now soothed, whenever he was touching Daniel. He was no nursemaid, and he figured he'd get restless soon, but not today. Touching Daniel, being near him, even under these lousy conditions, was a slice of heaven. Irresistible. Jack maybe should have tried harder to keep his distance, thought about who was watching, maybe let Daniel use those crutches, at least until they got into the house. But being close to Daniel, in light of how Jack had found him, was overwhelming.

He needed to pull himself together, though. He needed to focus. He'd been considering what the Navy had done to him and what Daniel had started to tell him about. He'd tried to fit the pieces together, there in the hospital, watching the midday light fall on Daniel's face as he dozed and Jack waited for the nurses to come and tell them Daniel was discharged. Jack was certain he'd been a target and was probably still a target. His reassignment, the clumsy pass that sailor had made at him on the _Forrestal_ \-- Simmons was trying to get enough evidence to have him court martialed. Jack had done what he could to forestall that: he'd put his head down, and hung on and refused to be baited.

But now that he was back home, and had learned that Daniel had been in for it, too, that Daniel suspected this beating was more than it seemed.... Yeah, Jack was thinking it over. Maybourne had warned him, and Daniel had, too, but they had not been able to do anything before Simmons made his move. But now, quietly, coldly, down there underneath his happiness at being with Daniel again, down in his core, in his belly, Jack found that he was furious.

He was done being carefree. Love had made him blind. He'd stupidly told Daniel in Washington that they could bide their time. He'd been wrong. So for starters, Jack had decided that as soon as he had Daniel settled, he was going to park himself on the front porch with a big glass of tea and a new pack of Camels and watch for the watchers. Simmons had to be figuring Jack would come here first thing, when he got back to shore. Maybe the timing of Daniel's beating was no accident. Maybe Simmons had fingers all over the FBI, not just in the military's own anti-communist investigation. Maybe that was how Maybourne knew about Simmons in the first place.

Yeah, Jack had had some time to think.

Daniel was pale and sweating by the time Jack got him up the stairs, down the endless hallway, and settled in his own bed, a bunch of pillows piled behind him. Jack smoothed a sheet over Daniel's pajama-clad legs and started to get up. He had in mind going to the kitchen and seeing what he could find for them to eat -- maybe there would be some canned soup, at least. But Daniel's hand shot out and closed around his wrist.

"This is going to sound really whiny," Daniel said, "but could you just... stay here for a little while?"

Jack shifted his weight back down onto the mattress and put his hand over Daniel's. "I thought I'd see what was in the pantry. Some soup, maybe, or I could--"

"I know. That's fine. Just... not right now, all right?" Daniel closed his eyes and squeezed harder at Jack's wrist.

"Sure. Sure thing." Daniel was very still, propped there on the pillows. Jack wanted to cook, to eat, to check out his theory about the watchers. And he wanted a cigarette. But Jack toed off his shoes and, carefully, knowing Daniel was in pain even with the drugs he'd taken before they headed for home, fit himself next to him, resting a hand just above where the line of strapping would be, around Daniel's middle. He gently pushed his face in close to Daniel's scratchy, stubbly jaw. Daniel hadn't let go of him. Now he let his hand relax around Jack's wrist, and slid it up to cover Jack's hand. He turned his head, and Jack felt Daniel's lips against his forehead, a small kiss, a series of nuzzles.

Jack was tired; bone tired, after the frantic running around of the last few days and all the bad news. It was way too nice to just lie here. He smoothed his hand gently against Daniel's belly and Daniel murmured. He felt Daniel's other hand and arm, pushing in to snuggle against his stomach and leg, as if Daniel wanted to be touching him as much as possible, despite the shape he was in.

"I missed you so much," Daniel said softly. "It was longer than it seemed; longer than I thought it would be. It seemed like forever between your postcards. I would get two or three at once, and then nothing for weeks."

"At least you got them," Jack said. "Good to know." Daniel took a deep breath, or tried to, hitching at the pain in his ribs, but he exhaled, and then Jack felt him relax a little more, too.

"What? I wrote to you; didn't you get my letters?" His lips were resting against Jack's forehead again. It felt sublime.

"We should talk about this later, after you get some rest, but I think this is all part of the same thing. I didn't get any mail at all, the whole time I was out. Not from you, or from Mom, or from Gayle."

"Jesus," Daniel said.

"I missed you, too, baby," Jack said, and he couldn't stand it. Daniel was offering, nuzzling, and it was cruel, to do this with Daniel hurt, as he was, but Jack had to. He got up on one elbow and closed his eyes and pressed his mouth to Daniel's. They kissed, and Jack found himself pouring all his loneliness and longing and fear and rage into the kiss. Daniel's hand came up and over and clutched the back of his head. It went on for a long time. It was as if Jack was drinking him up, tasting him, remembering everything. It made Jack hard. It made his chest hurt. When Jack could finally pull away, break the connection, and look into Daniel's eyes, they were wild and worried.

"Sorry," Jack said.

"We definitely need to talk," Daniel said.

"Later," Jack said, and lay down again, scrunching close, holding on. "Later."

He didn't mean to doze off, but he did. He woke with a start, and the room was dark around him, but somehow, even half asleep and disoriented, he didn't feel worried. It wasn't the hot damp claustrophobic den that was the crew quarters of the carrier. It was much more familiar and dear than that. It was soft expensive sheets, and the warm scent of Daniel, and lavender-dusted pillows and a faint trace of furniture polish.

Daniel was awake. He was absently petting Jack's hair.

"Why did you let me sleep," Jack demanded, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "What time is it?"

"I don't know," Daniel said. "But I'm hungry."

"I'll see what I can find for us."

"Can you help me with something first?"

"Sure," Jack said, figuring he knew what it was. He steered Daniel into the bathroom, let Daniel lean on him while he used the toilet, and got him a glass of water from the sink there, and then got him back into bed.

The hall clock said it was after ten. Jack, feeling scruffy and greasy, wandered downstairs in his socks, turning lights on as he went, and found a couple of cans of soup in the big pantry and poured them in a pan on the stove. He smoked a cigarette on the back porch, and then it occurred to him to pull the Chevy around to the alley and unload his things and Daniel's, and bring them up into the kitchen.

The soup was nice and hot by the time he did all that. He took it upstairs on a tray, with some crackers. He would have fed it to Daniel if necessary, romantic sap that he was, but instead Daniel sat up against the pillows and fed himself. He still had no glasses, Jack realized. Jack liked that -- Daniel without glasses was like his secret bedroom Daniel. Daniel with glasses was the cool professional he'd flown out to the Pacific, the guy he had discussed classified topics with over breakfast in Washington. He liked that Daniel too, admired him, but bedroom Daniel belonged to Jack. Jack shook his head at himself. Romantic sap was about right.

Daniel sighed and pushed the tray to one side. He'd eaten a lot and had drunk some more water, Jack was glad to see.

"It's like I was in a fog, just drifting, the whole time I was in the hospital. Now that you're here, I can think again," Daniel said, regarding him thoughtfully.

Jack shook his head, not knowing what to say to that. But he knew exactly what Daniel meant. His time at sea was already receding, faded as an old postcard. He knew what Daniel felt, was amazed they shared this, this feeling of being completely alive only when they were together.

"We have to make some plans," Daniel said.

"Yes," Jack said. "Tomorrow."

~~~~

Jack wasn't sure what, exactly, he'd been thinking would happen after he got Daniel home from the hospital. He certainly wasn't expecting this. It all started the second day.

Right when they got home, Daniel had told him he could put a note on the garbage can lid for the milk man, and so he did, that first afternoon. The next morning, there was milk when Jack got up to make coffee. And afterward, that note was all Jack could point to as the beginning of the chain of events. Although he wouldn't have put it past Miz Rachel Keller to have her own network of information, either. She showed up the second day, after the milk but well before the afternoon newspaper.

Jack was in the shower, having propped Daniel up in his bed with coffee and milk toast, and when he emerged, he heard the vacuum cleaner again. He shook his head and made sure the towel was securely around his waist before he came out, although if the vacuum cleaner was running, he was going to be safe enough upstairs.

He closed the bedroom door behind him. Daniel looked up.

"Mrs. Keller was the one who told me you were in the hospital."

"Oh," Daniel said, and he looked over at the windows, then back at Jack. "You know, I never until this minute thought to wonder about that. How you found out."

Jack was getting dressed. He'd hung his clothes next to Daniel's in the closet with the mirror on the door, the previous night.

Daniel said, thoughtfully, "This is Tuesday, right?"

Jack, buttoning his shirt, said, "Yeah?"

"Monday's her regular day; every other Monday.... Do you mind going down and checking in with her? Or you can send her up here." Daniel looked around. He wasn't dressed; he was wearing the old chenille bathrobe and nothing else. He looked a little worried.

"Not at all."

"Ask her to get us some groceries," Daniel said, rumpling the hair on the back of his head. "Unless you want to do it."

"Daniel. I never had a cleaning lady in my life. Neither did my mom. Trim carpenters' wives from Chicago do not have cleaning ladies. You tell me what you want me to tell her."

Daniel leaned back. He closed his eyes. "Okay, look. This isn't her day to come. She's clearly checking up on me, and running the vacuum is her way of announcing she's here. You see? So just ask her, what she wants to do."

"Daniel?"

Daniel stared at him, reading his mind. "I didn't tell her directly about us, Jack. I didn't have to. She's been working for me, for us, since before my mother died, all right?"

Jack shook his head and went downstairs. He felt he would never understand the south.

Mrs. Keller did not seem insulted that Jack intended to shop for groceries himself. She took in his news that Daniel had been released from the hospital, and his update on Daniel's condition, calmly, with folded arms.

That night, Jack was going through his duffel and Daniel's bags, sorting out things that needed washing or pressing. Daniel was propped on pillows, drinking tea and watching him. It had rained briefly, in the middle of the day, and it was cooler than it had been. The heat wave was over, but it was still plenty hot enough to Jack.

"I should maybe sleep in the guest room," Jack said, looking at a shirt of Daniel's that had been crammed in the bottom of a paper sack. It was wrinkled, and it had blood stains on it. He frowned. "Since Mrs. Keller's doing the laundry and everything. You can tell me where the spare sheets are."

Daniel was shaking his head when Jack glanced at him. "She won't tell on us. I promise." They stared at each other. Jack sighed, and wadded up the shirt and pitched it in the laundry pile. It was probably ruined. Blood stains were hard to get out, he remembered his mother saying.

He didn't insist. Later, he climbed into bed with Daniel, carefully curving around Daniel's body, pushing with his knee until Daniel bent his and let Jack's leg slip under it.

Starting the third day, both papers began arriving, as well as half gallons of milk. That day, first thing in the morning, Daniel insisted that Jack help him get up, and bathe and get fully dressed, including a necktie and a shave. Despite all Jack's protests, Daniel forced Jack to install him in the big lounge chair with the matching ottoman and the reading lamp, in the downstairs living room, with some books beside him. He had instructed Jack to look for his spare glasses in his study, and he put them on at once and left them on. That made Jack vaguely disappointed. Jack noticed Daniel didn't actually read very much in the course of the morning, but he insisted the pile of books and journals was necessary, and he wouldn't go back upstairs.

"Just wait. You'll see," Daniel had said.

Jack was washing up the lunch dishes, hoping Daniel was dozing, as he looked like he would, given half a chance, after eating the grilled cheese sandwich and reheated, homemade tomato soup Jack had found in the refrigerator and served him, when at one o'clock sharp, he heard the front door buzzer.

"Come in," he heard Daniel call. Jack froze there, at the kitchen sink.

The big door opened and closed, and he could hear quiet voices.

Pretty soon, Daniel called his name, and so he sighed and went out there, a tea towel over his shoulder, and Daniel introduced him to a grey-haired, serious-faced gentleman who was announced to be Dr. David Jordan, Daniel's department head at Memphis State. He had brought his wife with him.

Jack fled back to the kitchen as soon as he could.

It went on like that until four -- fifteen minute calls, some overlapping. By two, Jack had made and brought out pitchers of iced tea and several dozen home-made oatmeal cookies he had found packed in tins in the pantry, the cookies neatly separated into layers with waxed paper. The visitors were co-workers. Co-workers' wives. Neighbors. Some brought more food.

Definitely the south.

At four thirty, Daniel called him. Jack glanced warily around the parlor, but Daniel was alone.

"Lock that door," Daniel said. Jack did. "Take me upstairs. Now." Daniel was leaning back against the chair cushions, pale and tired again.

Jack did, and had a fleeting moment of guilty reminiscing about what Daniel's imperious tone used to do to him. The kinds of orders Daniel used to give him sometimes, and how much fun Jack had had carrying them out. As Daniel leaned on his shoulder, all the way upstairs, he could see Daniel was wincing more than he had been since Jack had gotten him home.

"Headache?"

"Oh yeah."

Jack got him back into bed, got two aspirin down him, and left him there to sleep. The doorbell didn't ring again that day.

The fourth day, as it turned out, was quiet. Early in the morning, Jack woke, and he immediately smelled coffee. He turned his head quickly, checking, but Daniel was right there beside him, sprawled half on his side, deeply asleep. He heard water running in the kitchen, in the otherwise silent, grayish morning, and he waited. He heard someone walking around down there, and voices, and after a while the back door opened and shut. Then peaceful silence. But he could still smell coffee.

He got up, trying not to disturb Daniel, and got dressed, just in case. He found coffee in big silvery, heat-proof carafe that made him think of the Washington hotel, a memory that made him wince. He noticed the milk and the papers had been brought in. He smoked a cigarette on the porch, enjoying the short-lived morning coolness, and then took the coffee upstairs.

Daniel was awake, eyes open, but just lying there in the same position he'd been sleeping in. When he caught sight of Jack, he smiled -- the warmest, least pain-pinched smile Jack had yet seen. He set the coffee on the bureau and walked around the bed and bent and kissed him. For a long time. When they pulled apart, Daniel smiled at him. It made Jack grin. It stretched his face, and felt unfamiliar. It had been a long time since he'd felt like grinning, he realized. Months. It felt as though brand-new muscles were moving in his face.

"You brought coffee," Daniel said. Jack helped Daniel sit up, and he brought two mugs into bed. Daniel sipped. "Miss Rachel made this, didn't she? Is she here?"

"I think she must have been, early this morning. I heard someone, but I waited till the coast was clear to go down there."

Daniel nodded and drank some more, closing his eyes in bliss, then twinkling at Jack. "Don't be insulted, but she really does make the best coffee I've ever tasted. I should ask her the secret sometime."

Jack couldn't see it. It tasted the same to him as his own coffee. Maybe Daniel had a true connoisseur's palate for the stuff. If it was hot and didn't bite him back, it was good enough for Jack. He regarded Daniel, who was regarding his coffee.

"I need to call Chicago today, and I'm thinking maybe I'd better not do it from your phone."

Daniel looked serious, at least as serious as he could, bathed in sunlight, his chest exposed, looking relaxed and delicious and rumpled. Jack told his dick to behave itself. Way too soon for him to be getting frisky like this. Daniel said, "You want to tell your mother you're on shore?"

"Yeah, but I was thinking of telling her I was still in Norfolk."

Daniel watched him, and Jack could see he was pondering. They were quiet. Jack knew Daniel wasn't concerned about what he told his mother or didn't tell his mother. He was thinking the same thing Jack was -- about who might be listening to Daniel's phone calls.

Daniel said, "We haven't had time to really get into this since I've been home, but we need to. I want to make some plans." Jack settled back into the pillows to listen. "While you're out, I think you should call Paul Davis, too."

"Major Davis? In D.C.? And tell him what?"

"What's happened. What you heard from Maybourne, what the Navy's done to you, and about this beating. I don't think any of this is an accident, Jack, and I know you don't either."

"No. I don't think it's an accident." They were both quiet. The house was so still around them.

"I didn't say this, but my god, I hope you know it: Thank you for coming back. For risking all this. For taking care of me."

Jack just shook his head, and cupped Daniel's cheek for a moment. "I don't have to be back in Norfolk for another ten days. And I don't mind telling you, I'm not looking forward to going out to sea again, if that's what's next, and I don't like leaving you here alone."

"How very chivalrous of you."

"Oh, come on. It's not that. It's just..."

"I know." Daniel looked tentative for a moment, but what he saw in Jack's eyes must have reassured him, because he smiled, warmly, sweetly. "It's getting old, isn't it?"

"Yeah." Jack put his head back against the pillows, looking at the ceiling. "Especially now." He felt Daniel take his hand, and he squeezed back, hard. The hitch at sea had been nearly unbearable. He didn't used to be like this. He used to get by just fine on his own. He sighed.

"I hate this," Daniel said, after a minute. "This is wrong, what Simmons is doing. It's abusing his power, it's abusing his mandate. It's just wrong. I'm not a security risk. I've done nothing to merit this."

Jack smiled, a bitter and ironic curve of his lips that came and went, but the irony remained in his eyes. "Preaching to the choir, Daniel."

"What he's doing is simply wrong," Daniel repeated.

"No argument from me."

"Jack." Daniel closed his eyes. He looked pained, and Jack didn't think it was because of the concussion. He didn't look at pale as he had in the hospital, and the hair was poking around and through the stitches in his head. They'd have to come out soon, Jack figured. In fact, he was supposed to take Daniel in to have them removed in a day or so, he remembered. He wondered if Daniel would have a scar.

"You look kind of like a pirate, now, with that cut on your head." That made Daniel smile, and he met Jack's eyes again.

"How is it that you're not angry?"

"I am angry. I'm so angry, I don't know what to do. I don't have anywhere to put it. If I thought about it too much, I'd get up and start punching things. It's wrong. It's all wrong. You know I agree with you -- we're not hurting anyone. We've both been doing our jobs, doing our best. Doing whatever we were ordered to do. It's just..." he shook his head, and drank down his coffee, trying to wash the anger back down with it. Daniel was gazing at him, frowning.

"I want you to talk to Paul. I do want you to tell him everything that's happened. I'm angry, too. Angry beyond words that I've dragged you into my feud with Simmons. He's ruined your career, and I'm afraid, Jack. I'm afraid it won't stop with this." Daniel took off his glasses and tossed them onto the bedspread. He rubbed his eyes. "I never thought I'd say this, but the more I think about it, the more I realize I can't accept this, and I can't let it go. I can't pretend it's not happening." He wrapped his arms around his middle and winced. Jack put a hand on his shoulder. Daniel looked at him, and the cold determination revealed there made Jack raise his eyebrows. "I want to stop him, Jack. I'm not going to let him destroy you. I'm not going to let him hurt you any more than he already has."

"Like you haven't been hurt. Let's not forget about that."

"Oh, I'm not. I can't," and Daniel laughed a little, bitterly and soft. He reached out and pulled Jack to him, and said, "Ouch," but he wouldn't let go of Jack when he tried to pull away, concerned about the ribs, and so Daniel settled them both again in the bed, against the pillows.

"So, revenge," Jack said, after a minute of listening to Daniel breathe, of feeling his chest rise and fall, of listening to his heart. Jack remembered the look on Simmons' face, the naked gloating, in the hotel restaurant the previous winter. He remembered how much of an effort it had been not to drive his fist into the man's face. "I'm kinda out of practice with all that Count of Monte Cristo stuff."

Daniel laughed again. He stroked Jack's hair. "He's abusing his power, Jack. He's the one in the wrong, here. Not us."

Jack pondered. This was new. It wasn't in his nature to go against orders; never had been. Things had been good, until Simmons. He'd gotten to fly. He'd seen the world. He'd tried to get along, do the things the Navy needed him to do, and until Daniel, he'd gotten along okay. It had been shameful to him, to be the kind of man he was, and he'd tried to hide it, and he had, and while it had been lonely, it hadn't been too hard to play along. He couldn't miss something he'd never had, before. But now Simmons had put him on notice that there was no more trying to get along, trying to pass. Whether Simmons had any real proof of his involvement with Daniel or not, Maybourne was right. Jack was a target now. He couldn't go on as he had, before he'd been taken off the team and sent overseas. Everything was different now. And not only had that bastard Simmons been able to reach out and fuck with Jack's career, he'd been able to reach out and hurt Daniel. Jack shivered.

"You know I don't blame you for any of this," he said. Daniel might not know that; might think Jack was holding it all against him. It was important for Jack to say it again. "Maybe you were already on Simmons' shit list, but you didn't cause what happened to me."

"I know you feel that way, but the fact remains -- if I hadn't dragged you to Washington in January, he would never have known you existed, and you'd still be with the Blue Angels."

"You don't know that," Jack said, his mouth against Daniel's neck, Daniel's fingers soft in his hair. "He might have been following you all along. Just waiting for something he could use against you. Or someone."

"It's so wrong, what he's doing. I just..." Daniel's fingers tightened on his nape. "I just love you, Jack. I love you so much. I won't... I...."

Daniel trailed off. There was nothing to do but raise his mouth to Daniel's and kiss him, softly, as if he could take away all the stings, all the hurts, all the fear. "I love you, too, baby," Jack said, and then he put his head back on Daniel's shoulder, where Daniel had wanted it.

That was the long and short of it. That was why they were in this mess, and despite everything, Jack couldn't be sorry. Didn't feel even a moment's regret. Falling in love with another man was so outside what he'd ever thought was possible, until he had fallen so hard for Daniel. Before he'd walked into that club on Beale Street, for all the years since he'd been grown up enough to understand what sex was, for all that time, even when he'd given in to his needs, given in to the knowledge that he wouldn't like girls, couldn't settle down with a girl even if he tried, he hadn't understood that something like this was possible. Then he'd met Daniel. Now he knew what love was. Now it was real to him, not something he watched and wondered about. And now that he had it, had Daniel, he wasn't going to let go. No matter what.

Jack said, "Here's the thing. If I was going to be able to walk away from this, I'd have done it by now. Six months out there on that ship -- six months of knowing they were watching me, setting me up, and I still.... I thought about you every day. Whether I wanted to or not. I missed you. I was just waiting to come back; that's all I was doing."

Daniel was very still; so still that Jack sat up again and looked at him. Daniel had a very odd look on his face; one Jack didn't think he'd ever seen before. It was ... stunned? Jack reviewed what he'd just said and realized what a left-handed compliment it really was. He said, "That kinda came out wrong, didn't it?"

Daniel looked down, and slowly reached for him again, stroking his arm gently. "Well, no. Not really. I'm thinking the thing to do here is for me to get down on one knee, except, you know, I can't." He glanced up at Jack then, and Jack could see the pure happiness shining out of him. It warmed Jack, down to his toes. It even made the cold rage in his stomach feel less heavy. Jack had a distinct feeling that they'd crossed some kind of bridge, that they each had made a very real, very important declaration. Despite his own fumbling. Daniel was the words expert, after all. He put his hand over Daniel's, where it still lay on his arm, and snuggled carefully back down, into the warmth, close against Daniel's side.

Daniel said, "Something happened on the ship, then. You didn't tell me that before."

It was nice, hearing Daniel's voice rumble under his ribs. "Oh, nothing, really. They set some idiot up to come at me, to get some proof I was really a ..." _Really a faggot,_ had been on the tip of his tongue to say, but he couldn't say it out loud, he found. Not here. Not in this bed, pressed against this man's beautiful warm skin, feeling what he felt in his heart. Everything he'd learned outside this room, his whole life, had told him he was wrong, dirty, evil, perverted. Everything that he knew Daniel just wasn't. Everything he himself didn't feel, when he was with Daniel. Jack shook his head. "Get some proof," he amended. Daniel was petting his neck and shoulder again.

This was real. And it was so, so good. It still wasn't something he'd ever tell his mother, or try to justify to anyone else in the world. But it was something he'd fight for. And, he knew Daniel would, too. He sat up, pulling away, but keeping hold of Daniel's hand.

"I could call Maybourne, too. He knows Simmons, and I think he's willing to help us."

Daniel tilted his head, looking curious. "You go way back with him, I guess."

"We had a thing, a long time ago. Not like this," Jack said, looking at their hands, looking at how his thumb was stroking the back of Daniel's hand. He looked up again and met those blue eyes. Those brave, brave blue eyes. "I wasn't in love with him or anything. But I guess he still ... I dunno. Wishes me well?"

Daniel nodded, thinking, taking it all in. "You have to wonder. All this effort, all this frantic digging by the FBI, to expose the evil homosexuals. We're such a danger." His voice was full of sarcasm. He let go of Jack's hand and leaned back, scratching at his stitches and then wincing and pulling his hand away when he realized that was what he was doing. Daniel continued: "Here's the conclusion I've come to. Simmons is not going to go away. He's not going to stop harassing either of us, now that he's sure he has some real dirt on us both, especially me. I can't tell you about Korea, but just take it as a given that he has a grudge against me that goes back years. I've ignored it all this time, but I can't ignore it any more. He has made that crystal clear.

"So. We're going to find a way to stop him. And by that I mean, we're going to find a way to prevent him from hurting either of us, in any way, ever again."

Jack smiled. "Sounds like a goal. Now all we need is a plan."

Daniel felt around beside him, and found his glasses and put them back on, and Jack could see the wheels turning. Jack stood up. "I'll go make those phone calls. Pick up a few things. Get back before visiting hours start."

Daniel met his eyes. He was hugging himself again. "I'm sorry, Jack. I'm sorry you were dragged into this. It really is all my fault."

"I'm not sorry," Jack said, lightly. He leaned over and kissed Daniel by way of goodbye.

He noticed, as he drove down to the main avenue at the end of Daniel's quiet street, that there was a dark sedan with someone sitting in it, parked at the end of the block.

He was ready for some serious damage in the long-distance department. At Daniel's direction, he'd found several phone numbers for Major Davis in Daniel's big rolltop desk, and he'd copied them down, and he'd searched his memory for what he knew of Harry's assignments. His mother's phone number, of course, he'd known by heart for years.

He took all this information, and several rolls of quarters, and a new pack of cigarettes and a new book of matches that said "Welcome to Memphis" and shut himself into a phone booth at the train station. He was there for quite awhile, and just about out of quarters and dimes when he left. But he was full of information.

He'd learned that his mother would be happy to see him, of course, whenever he could get away from Virginia, and that there was a colossal pile of forwarded mail for him, sitting on the bed in his old bedroom. She informed him that every one of her letters to him since January had been returned to her, all at once, about a week previously, and all of his sister Gayle's had come to her, too, and, he learned, all of Daniel's (_"...someone named Jackson, in Memphis, Johnny, do you recognize that address?"_, and some from Kawalsky. All of it -- six months worth of mail that he didn't get, the whole time he was aboard the _Forrestal_. Huh.

(_"I would have been worried, except you kept writing to me, regular as clockwork. What happened?"_ No answer was really possible. He was evasive, and she let him get away with it.)

After talking to his mother, and sending his love to Gayle, he tried and failed to get through to Davis. Thinking quickly, he gave Davis' secretary a message that Davis should call Dr. Jordan at Memphis State, regarding Daniel Jackson. That should do the trick for moment, Jack figured. He had to dig hurriedly through his back pockets for more notes with numbers scribbled on them, to find the university number to give the guy, but that should work. It might even be better, safer, than talking to Davis himself. You never knew.

Finally, after a series of uncomfortable phone calls to the FBI headquarters, and using more quarters than he had for all the other phone calls put together, he reached Harry Maybourne.

When he answered, with a curt, "Maybourne here," Jack's heart started to pound.

"Hello; it's Jack O'Neill."

There was a pause. Probably anyone else would not have even marked it, it was so short. But it was there. "Jack!" Maybourne said, a false cheerfulness erupting into his voice. "How ya been, buddy? I thought you were overseas. What a pleasant surprise."

"You knew about my new posting, then."

"Oh, sure, sure. Word gets around. You know how it is. Hey; I'm about to go into a meeting -- give me the number where you're at, there. Let me call you back in ten. All right, Jack? _Call you back in ten?_"

Jack's heart was still beating hard. Too hard. He read off the number of the pay phone, and let Maybourne hang up. Abruptly.

This cloak and dagger stuff. Maybe he should have dragged Daniel out here to do it. It really didn't suit Jack at all. He leaned his head back against the hard oak wall of the phone booth, lit another Camel, and watched the people scurry to and fro outside. He sighed, and tried not to think.

The phone rang. It hadn't been anywhere near ten minutes.

"Yeah."

"Where are you?"

"Pay phone. Train station. Memphis."

"At least you have _some_ sense."

"Well, give me a little credit, Maybourne. I don't exactly have your home number. Never did, in fact."

"Dammit, you called me at work, Jack. That was bad."

"Well, I think things are about to get beyond bad. In fact, they already have. Still listening, for auld lang syne?"

"Keep talking. You can take my legendary soft-heartedness as read."

"Glad to hear it.... So you knew they put me on the _Forrestal_."

"Yeah." Maybourne's sour tone came through loud and clear.

"Guess where Doctor Jackson was, when I got back here, four days ago? In the hospital."

"What?"

"He was beaten up at a voter registration rally. By the cops, he says."

"What the hell was he doing at a voter registration rally?"

"Hello? Harry? Memphis? The Negro cause? Surely your lords and masters have heard of it?"

"Shut up, Jack." He could hear Maybourne thinking. "Was this the King rally? On the seventh?"

"The very same."

Jack took a big drag from his Camel. He waited. He knew Harry; knew him way too well. He didn't have to ask him any questions now.

"Okay. I guess you're based in Norfolk now?"

"For the moment." Jack put an insouciance he did not feel into his voice.

"Meet me in the train station in Richmond. Noon, the day after tomorrow."

"What?"

"Will you be there, Jack? Can you do it?"

"Yeah, sure, but--"

"Gotta go."

And Jack was left with the buzzing of the disconnected line. He looked at the phone a minute, and then hung it up gently, and lit another cigarette.

When he got back to Daniel's, with his trunk full of groceries, smoking the second cigarette out of a new pack of Camels, the dark car was still there at the corner.

He lugged the last of the groceries into Daniel's kitchen just before what Jack had taken to calling "visiting hours" began. Daniel had gotten himself downstairs on his own, and set out the iced tea, and some peanut brittle, Jack noticed from a distance, trying to stay out of the socializing. The oatmeal cookies were all gone, he found, with great regret. They had had raisins _and_ chocolate chips in them, which Daniel felt was gilding the lily. Jack had begged to differ.

Dr. Jordan appeared again, with a surprisingly beautiful young female professor with a British accent, who, Jack gathered by eavesdropping, had taken Daniel's classes while he was recuperating. Her silvery laugh made Jack smile. There was some conversation he didn't quite catch, something about new permits and an excavation and the Department of Antiquities. Jack went back to the lunch dishes, hoping he wouldn't have to get introduced all around again today. Not that he wasn't interested in Daniel's life, but just now he preferred to stay in the background as much as possible.

After the parade of callers dispersed for the day, Daniel wanted to have dinner sitting up in the breakfast room, saying he was tired of feeling like an invalid, but he allowed Jack to put him back to bed right after.

Then Jack cleaned the kitchen, his instincts, habits and training making it impossible for him to leave the mess there on the off chance Mrs. Keller would come by in the morning again.

His hands wrinkled from the hot water, he went out and relaxed for a bit in the swing, listening to the whisper of the willow branches, smoking, and turning over in his mind everything he had learned.

_This isn't gonna be your typical pillow talk,_ he thought, flicking his cigarette butt into the lilacs, and taking a deep breath of the warm air, before heading upstairs again. It was just about this time of year that he'd met Daniel. He didn't remember the exact day, now, which seemed a shame. But the magnolias were blooming again, as they'd been that night, the first night he'd spent here, a rich heavy scent that seemed to follow him into the house.

~~~~

"Baby," Jack whispered, against Daniel's lips, and Daniel's hand was feeling for the waistband of Jack's pajamas, sliding under the elastic to close around his already tight and urgent erection. "You don't have to. We can wait; you're still--"

"No more waiting," Daniel said. "Not for this."

"Danny," Jack said, kissing him back, still worried, still reluctant, but oh christ Daniel's hand felt good wrapped around him, dragging just a little, pulling at the skin, but then Daniel cupped his fingers over the tip, and gave a little twist. Jack was leaking already, so much pent-up lust, and the feel of his pre-come smoothing along there, under Daniel's fingers, on the sweet spot under the head -- it tore a groan from Jack. He kissed Daniel harder and fumbled for him, too, pushing the covers aside, pushing at Daniel's pajamas. The bottoms closed with snaps, and Daniel grabbed one side of his fly with his free hand and Jack grabbed the other, and the snaps, well, snapped, and then all of a sudden Daniel was in his hand, after all those lonely months -- hard and hot and alive in his hand.

"God," Jack said, into Daniel's mouth, and he felt Daniel smile.

Daniel's hand moved on him, so sweet, so tight, so good, and he didn't even care that the little bit of wetness wasn't enough, because the rasp of friction was outweighed by the sheer pleasure of knowing it was Daniel touching him, the squeezing warmth of Daniel's hand, Daniel touching him again. All the time, along with feeling Daniel touching him, he had Daniel's dick, satiny and warm under his own fingers. He touched it lightly, teasingly, the way he'd learned Daniel liked, the way he'd replayed in his bunk when he dared, all spring, when he couldn't take not thinking about it any more. Daniel's mouth was wet and hot and deep under his, the best thing he'd ever tasted.

Daniel stopped stroking him and squeezed, gently, and at the same time he backed off from the deep intense kissing, gently, gradually.

"I ... have ... an idea," Daniel said, between small kisses. Jack had his eyes squeezed shut, but all he could do was moan and continue his teasing touches. Daniel's hips jerked, just a little.

"It's all good," Jack managed. He was a little glad Daniel had backed off and was just squeezing him, not stroking, as if he knew how close to the edge Jack was already.

"Get up," Daniel said, and Jack got his elbow under him and rolled mostly to his stomach, leaning over Daniel but not on him, leaning up so he could look into his face. There was plenty of light from the street. Jack had forgotten to pull the shades, it got dark so late.

"What?" Jack was blurry and high. _Get up?_

"Get up," Daniel urged. "Go get me the Vaseline, from the bathroom. I have an idea."

"We don't... I can't... I don't want to hurt you..."

"I'm not going to be doing any of the work," Daniel said, stretching up to kiss him, which was fine with Jack.

"But..."

"Jack," Daniel said, kissing him again, "I want to fuck _you_ tonight. Go get the Vaseline."

Jack made some kind of smothered groaning noise. He rolled away, tangling himself in the covers, getting free, then kicking off his pajama bottoms as he went. The hall was darker than the bedroom, the bathroom darker still, but he found what he was looking for, by touch, in the medicine cabinet.

When he got back to the bed, Daniel had stripped his own pants off and was lying there on the white sheets, naked except for the bandage around his middle, his eyes glittering up at Jack. He was holding the base of his dick, but he reached out his other hand for the tin, and Jack gave it to him. Breathing hard, Jack climbed over him, on his hands and knees.

"Kneel there, over my legs, where I can reach you," Daniel said, and there was the imperious ordering again. Jack licked his lips and did as Daniel said.

He watched Daniel close his eyes, and then feel with slicked fingers between Jack's legs. He didn't hesitate, despite how long it had been, but he seemed to enjoy trailing his fingertips along the sensitive underside of Jack's spread thigh, along the curve of his buttock, to the opening.

"Ah," Jack said, the sound, again, emerging from his chest with no real intention on his part. Daniel's fingers were warm and sure, pressing in insistently yet gently. He _wanted_ this. He wanted Daniel, so much. Usually, over their time together, he was the one on top. But it wasn't because he didn't love this, he had concluded. It was because Daniel _really_ loved it. He hadn't tried it quite this way, yet, though, although Daniel had, once.

He sat there, balanced on his knees, his muscles stretching pleasantly, the warm air of the room, stirred by the slow ceiling fan, kissing his nipples, his chest, and reveled in the feeling of Daniel entering him. Opening him.

"God, Jack," Daniel said, and Jack looked down to see Daniel looking up at him, still gripping his own dick, close against his own, so close he brushed Jack with his knuckles. "You're beautiful," Daniel said.

Jack couldn't answer. Daniel was stretching him now, pushing deeper, and the feeling skated on the edge of making his muscles contract without his wanting them to. He breathed, thinking about relaxing, pushing back, opening -- _See? All that training for pulling G's comes in so handy,_ he thought, and it made him smile. He ran both hands down his thighs. He felt so strange, nothing but air against his body, only feeling Daniel's skin pressed gently, so gently, under his own ass and his spread thighs. The room was warm, but not too warm. Daniel pulled out slowly, so slowly, and put a gooey hand to Jack's thigh, urging him to move.

"Up a little, baby," Daniel said, and Jack smiled, to hear himself being called that. Once again going where Daniel wanted him, he shifted, easing up and over, then pushing himself gently, gently down on Daniel's cock.

"God," he said, "God," and through his blurted words he heard Daniel say his name. He was so ready for this, or Daniel had been extra thorough, or maybe it was this angle, or all of that, but it was easy. He took Daniel in slowly, pushed until he could feel Daniel's fist pulling away from between their bodies. Jack filled himself, pressing down, rocking gently, the blood pounding in his lips, in his dick, the spangly rush of his climax building almost immediately, from deep inside him.

"I'm gonna come, baby," Jack warned, and Daniel groaned and touched him, folded his free hand around the swollen, tight head of Jack's cock, and Jack did. He tried to lean aside, tried to take some of his weight on his fist against the mattress, but it was so overwhelming, so fast, so much. Through the rush of his own orgasm he could feel Daniel's, his dick pulsing inside Jack.

"Jack, Jack," he heard, and he felt Daniel's hands, one gently around his sagging dick, the other on his knee. He was panting. He'd almost blacked out.

"Wow," he said. Awkwardly, as if his knees were going to stay stuck in position, he moved, leaning to one side, and Daniel popped free. Daniel groaned. Jack fell to the mattress, one leg still flung across Daniel's. Daniel flopped a heavy hand to rest against his ribs.

"Think that'll hold you a few more days?"

"Oh, god," Jack said. "I guess it'll have to." He burrowed closer, pressing his face against Daniel's cheek, knowing that things were speeding up, knowing that he, once again, had to leave in the morning. "Love you," he mumbled.

"Me, too," Daniel said, "and no, you didn't hurt me."

"Small favors," Jack said, and then he was asleep.


	12. Chapter 12

It had been four cigarettes (though Jack was trying not to count), and a lot of loitering with a newspaper under the windows of the Richmond train station, before Harry Maybourne nudged him with an elbow. Maybourne looked like he hadn't been sleeping too well.

Jack folded his paper and stuck it under his arm. He started walking, strolling down the wide aisle toward the archway that led to the platforms, and Harry paced him. Jack pulled his dwindling pack of Camels out of the inside pocket of his jacket and shook one free, and Harry took it.

"We've gotta stop meeting like this," Harry said, and put the cigarette between his lips. Jack paused to strike a match for him. He'd lost his big Zippo somewhere between Pensacola and Norfolk, months ago, and had never gotten around to getting another one.

Then he lit his own cigarette from Harry's, and Harry smiled ruefully. Jack figured he knew what Harry was remembering -- a rainy night in Washington, a very long time ago, and an exchange with cigarettes much like this one, that had led to a whole hell of a lot more than a tense conversation in broad daylight. The memory was a good one, despite everything that had happened since. But Harry didn't make some reference to old times. He just started walking again, taking a drag from his Camel. He didn't look at Jack.

"I can help you with this," Harry said. "But I'm gonna want something in return."

"I figured," Jack said. With calm detachment, he watched the crowd surge past them. Harry's voice was coming to him as if from far away. Mostly Harry looked ahead, and not at Jack, as they walked along. His face was tired and crumpled, but he was wearing a crisp tan trench coat, open, because of the warm weather, and under it a blue suit and a red-and-blue tie and an immaculate, perfectly buttoned white shirt, even the collar tips. Jack felt underdressed in chinos and an old Oxford-cloth shirt he'd borrowed from Daniel's closet.

Harry said, "Tell me your plan."

"Don't really have one. We, my friend and I, were just trying to think of all the ways we might come up with some leverage on our mutual, ah, target."

Jack was trying not to say any names, but it was awkward to come up, on the fly, with a synonym for Daniel and a euphemism for Simmons.

He plowed on, "Unless we bring in my friend's old contact in the Air Force, we're not really sure what kind of leverage there is going to be. But we've got to put a stop to the harassment. My friend was in the hospital for a week, Harry." Jack took a drag from his cigarette to hide the way his mouth tightened up.

Harry glanced at him. "So you got nothin'."

"No," Jack said, getting annoyed. "We'll get something. We just don't have it _yet_." It was coming back to him why working with Maybourne had always been such a fun-filled party, and why he'd been willing to walk away.

"You got nothin'," Harry repeated insistently. He walked along. He seemed grimly amused. "But luckily for you, _I_ have something. But like I said: I'm going to want a favor in return. A big favor."

"How big?" Jack said, turning wary. Although he should have expected nothing else.

"I want out, Jack," Harry said, and dropped his cigarette to the floor of the station and stepped on it. He turned to Jack and folded his arms. "And I have a feeling your ... friend ... has some contacts who can pave the way. His contact you mentioned, in the Air Force, for starters."

"Out, how?"

"Out of the country. And out of the bureau. And to do that I need a new name." Harry glanced around as he spoke. Then he turned, to walk back the way they had come, toward the crowd around the snack stands, and Jack followed him, frowning. Harry went on: "I can get you some very good leverage against the target. But in exchange, here's what I want: A new passport." He stopped again, in shaft of clear sunlight. "I need to disappear, Jack."

Jack stopped too, searching Maybourne's face. "What can you get us?"

"It will involve photos. Photos that you're going to take." Harry wiped a hand across his face and started walking again. His hand was shaking.

~~~~

Jack waited. And waited and waited, in the dark, in the closet of a suburban Washington hotel room that smelled of old shoes and stale vomit. Harry had warned him it could be anywhere from two to six hours, and it was moving toward the long end of that time frame now. Jack was used to waiting, but usually he had cards to play or something to smoke.

He had none of his usual crutches this time. So he'd done a lot of practicing, in his mind... running over the lessons he'd been given, very hastily, over the last week, on the camera equipment that stood just within reach to his right. And as he thought, he'd lean his head against the cool plaster. He'd close his eyes, and carefully, in vivid detail and in full color in his mind, go over all the steps.

That was good. Mostly the camera and the developing process was what he thought about.

And, as the hours went by and his first rush of adrenaline at getting over the first hurdle, getting in here in the first place without being seen, had subsided, he found himself getting drowsy, and getting bored, and then jerking out of a half doze a couple of times, his heart pounding each time.

He tried not to let that happen.

When he got tired of sitting, he'd stand up. He'd shift his weight from foot to foot, and then, and he'd stand there, not letting his knees lock, and then for a while he'd lean against the wall, just for a change, taking the weight off his knees.

Then he'd sit down again.

Right when he'd first arrived, he'd taken the clothing bar down and leaned it in the corner so he wouldn't bump his head on it.

He didn't know, and he didn't want to know, who Maybourne had bribed about the hotel room, but the door had been unlocked and the camera already set up here in the closet when he came in, just as the two of them had arranged.

Besides the newly acquired camera skills, he had also replayed, in his mind, what he could remember of the last World Series, knowing that he kept getting it confused with the '57 series, since it was the same two teams. Having Milwaukee to cheer for had not been as good as having a Chicago team, but it was as close as he was likely to get in his lifetime.

Besides baseball games and photography, he'd also replayed landing the Tiger, and pondered some of the formations he'd flown for the Angels, and when that got too sad, he replayed some of his favorite nasty things to do to Daniel.

But despite all that, the time dragged.

Nevertheless, he was good at waiting.

Just after five hours, unless his watch had stopped, and thank goodness for the luminous hands, he heard something.

He was sitting down at the time, and it sounded like footsteps, coming close and pausing at the room door. He started to get up -- slowly, slowly, not wanting to knock a toe into the wall or the closet door. He heard a key turn in the lock, and the room door quietly opening. In the silence, he clearly caught the snap of a lightswitch, and then a strip of yellow appeared at his feet. Then he heard the footsteps again.

After so long in the darkness, the little bit of light was like noon.

Out in the room, someone sat on the bed with a creak of metal. Jack had eased to his feet. His heart was pounding, but he moved slowly and silently. In the dusk inside the closet, mostly by touch, he curled around the tripod. He put his eye to the viewfinder, and looked out into the too-bright room. Harry was there, sitting on the bed. As Jack watched, he loosened his tie, and toed off his shoes. His jacket was hanging on the desk chair. He never glanced at the closet door. Jack knew it was locked, and he resisted the urge to check it once more.

Then, more waiting.

Jack tried not to fidget. He leaned a shoulder against the wall, mostly, and sometimes he put his eye to the viewfinder and checked the room, to see what Harry was doing while he, also, waited. The whole time, Harry was lying back against the quilted headboard, one elbow crooked over his eyes, his stockinged ankles crossed. He looked comfortable. His feet looked unnaturally large from Jack's vantage point. Jack figured the relaxation was pretty much an act.

When the key turned and the door opened again, it was Simmons.

Harry sat up quickly and pulled off his tie. He got up and hung it over his coat on the back of the chair. Simmons never said a word. He walked over to Harry and put his hand out, and touched Harry's shoulder, and then ran his hand down the front of Harry's shirt to his crotch. He gave it a squeeze. Harry covered Simmons' hand with his own. Then Harry stepped back and resumed unbuttoning his shirt.

As Jack watched through the viewfinder, his heart in his mouth, Harry took off all his clothes, and piled them neatly on the chair. Simmons watched, too, his arms folded, two spots of color on his cheeks.

Harry hadn't changed much in the years since Jack had last seen him like this. Had put on a bit of weight in the middle, perhaps, but he had the same long legs, the same barrel chest, plenty of chest hair. Jack willed himself to stillness. He wiped his fingers on his trousers and felt for the camera shutter.

When he was naked, Harry, looking down the whole time, came around the bed and knelt on the floor, close to the bed but not touching it, midway along. Jack bit his lip; it was the perfect spot for the camera. It was all going to work out, then.

Simmons followed Maybourne. He was undoing his fly as he came. He sat down on the bed, in front of Harry, giving Jack a perfect profile. He still hadn't said anything.

Jack tried not to think about who he was seeing, tried not to remember that he'd felt that mouth on himself, looked forward to Harry doing just this, to him, all those years ago. He tried to think about the camera.

Harry made noises as he sucked Simmons off; at one point Simmons put a hand to his head and shushed him. Jack wondered if Harry was doing it on purpose to hide the sound of the shutter, though even to Jack's ears it was barely audible.

That Harry. Nothing if not thorough.

The two men were together in the room for a shorter time than Harry had waited for Simmons to arrive, but for Jack, those minutes crawled by almost as slowly as his wait in the dark.

Simmons had Harry do things to him that Jack had never thought of trying with Harry. They were things Jack had only done with Daniel, and there were a few things he hadn't. Jack didn't enjoy the show very much. And it didn't look like Simmons did either, though by Jack's count he got off three times.

When he was done, Simmons left Harry on the still-made, if rather rumpled, bed, very much as Jack had first seen him -- lying on his back, his elbow crooked over his eyes.

Jack followed the plan to the end -- remaining hidden and silent even after Simmons was gone, waiting the full hour after Harry left before he turned on the closet light, broke down the camera equipment and stowed it in the suitcase that was ready for him, there in the corner.

He tried to be quick, efficient and methodical, but he had to keep stopping to wipe his palms on his slacks.

~~~~

Daniel drove Jack's new car (it was another Fairlane, a '58 this time) to the Memphis airport in a blinding summer thunderstorm. He left the house just at dusk, and his plan was to catch a flight that would eventually, after a couple of plane changes, take him to New York to deliver Maybourne's new passport.

Paul Davis had come through, moved by sentiments Jack could make a well-educated guess at identifying. And Paul also had agreed to be the keeper of one of two keys to a certain newly acquired safe deposit box in a New York bank.

As Daniel left, closing the kitchen door quietly behind him, Jack stood in the living room, beside the left-hand door side light. It was the window from which he had learned, with a little experimenting, that it was possible to see the car that was usually parked at the end of the block to watch the house. He had to slightly push aside the gathered sheer curtain in order to see all the way to the end of the street. The car was there, as it had been since noon, and it never stirred. Jack smiled. When Daniel had left, he'd been wearing Jack's jacket and had left his glasses in the house. The rain was coming down in sheets. Jack had put Daniel's bag in the trunk of the Fairlane before dawn that morning.

Harry's request had been simple: a U.S. passport in a false name, with the space for the photo left blank. Sometime tomorrow, somewhere in LaGuardia Airport, Daniel would hand it to him.

Jack wondered if he would ever see Harry Maybourne again, and how he would look if Jack ever did. Jack thought that he would kind of like to see him again. He'd like a new memory to replace the look on Harry's face from the last time Jack had seen him; the look on his face as Major Simmons had pulled away from him and left him alone in a crummy Washington hotel room. Yeah, a new memory of Harry would be okay with Jack.

~~~~

A week after Daniel's trip to New York, Jack was back in the nation's capital, leaning against the wrought iron fence of a sunny park in the old section of downtown. It was a beautiful summer day, breezy and not too hot, and for Washington, not even very humid. The wind pleasantly ruffled the top of Jack's new haircut. It was a little longer on top than his Navy buzz. Daniel said he liked running his fingers through it.

Jack had picked a spot where he had a good view of the entrance gate, and he leaned his back against the fence, looking relaxed, as if he had all the time in the world, and stood there with crossed arms. Inside his summer jacket, the same one Daniel had worn when he'd slipped away to New York, a manila envelope crackled against Jack's chest. It made a reassuring sound.

As Jack stood there, watching and waiting again (_this is getting familiar_), he could feel Daniel watching him, those distant eyes boring into his shoulder, but he didn't turn around. It was actually a very pleasant feeling.

They had worked all this out before leaving Memphis -- where Jack would stand, where Daniel would wait, just in case. They'd discussed whether Jack should bring his revolver, but they had decided against it. All Simmons was likely to do if this went bad was to call the police or the FBI, and a revolver would do more harm than good in that situation. But Jack had been pretty sure Simmons wouldn't do that. And after seeing what Jack had brought to light in the makeshift darkroom in Daniel's basement, Daniel had agreed.

So now, Jack waited, pretending relaxation, and watched the park gate.

They'd given Maybourne plenty of time to get clear before setting up this meeting. When Daniel had gotten home from New York, he'd reported that Maybourne had walked safely through the archway that led to the international departures in the New York airport, just one of the crowd. Daniel had not attempted to learn where exactly he was going. But he was sure, he'd told Jack, that Maybourne was in the clear.

So. This was it.

And here Simmons came, five minutes late, wearing his uniform -- correct and neat from his blue hat to his shiny black shoes. Jack smiled, cold and calculating, feeling like a hawk on a perch.

He straightened, bringing his hips away from the fence, and watched Simmons approach. Simmons was scanning the fenceline, because that's where Jack had told him to look. Simmons frowned when he caught sight of Jack, and opened his mouth, aggressive, as always, but to forestall any sort of snide comment (_not in the mood_), Jack pulled the big sand-colored envelope out of his jacket and held it out.

"This is it? This is your big revelation?" Simmons sneered, closing the distance and grabbing for the envelope, waving the flimsy paper in front of Jack's face.

Jack said quietly, "Before you say any more, you'll want to take a look inside. And I do hope, for your sake, that you believed what I told you and came alone."

_Whoever said revenge is a dish best served cold?_ Jack thought, watching Simmons' face as he got a thumbnail under the brass prong, and started to pry it open, _They were right._

Simmons pulled out the top four inches of the single, grainy, eight-by-ten photo that it contained. Then he stopped pulling on the photo and instead, widened the envelope's open end and looked inside. When he had seen enough to know what it was, his face changed. Jack watched, fascinated. Simmons turned pale -- literally pale, like men Jack had seen losing it just before parachute jumps. Simmons swallowed. Hard.

He pushed the photo back into the envelope and then he ripped it in half down the middle, photo and envelope together, and ripped the pieces, and then stuffed the pieces in his pocket. He looked around, but there was no one nearby. No one close enough to hear.

Simmons said, and his voice had lost its sneer, "What do you want?"

"From that scumbag Maybourne, cash. From you, my honorable discharge."

Simmons looked stunned, like he was having trouble taking it all in.

Jack prodded, "You want me to contact Maybourne with a figure, or do you want to handle it?" Jack made his voice very polite and calm, like he was talking to the tower on a routine takeoff.

Simmons found his voice again. "I can't buy you a discharge from the United States Navy, you unspeakable piece of crap. And by the way; blackmail's a felony, if you didn't already know that." It was as if insults and counterattacks were too much of a habit for the man to break.

"I'm sorry to hear it," Jack said, turning away, still calm, still matter of fact. "Because I don't think you'll be liking the consequences much."

"Wait," Simmons said, and his voice was choked. "Wait..."

Jack stopped, and looked over his shoulder. He discovered, now that it was all out there, all out on the table, that he wanted this to be over as soon as possible. Unlike Simmons, with his parting gift of a dog dish, and his name-calling, Jack found he had no taste for gloating. Learning that about himself, actually, made him happy, in the midst of all this ugly negotiating. It brought a faint smile to his lips.

Simmons didn't say any more, just stood there, his mouth working.

Jack said, "I'll be back at the base in Norfolk tomorrow. And I'll be expecting my discharge papers from my C.O. there by the end of the week. Also, it goes without saying that nothing else is going to happen to Doctor Jackson; are we clear?"

Simmons gritted his teeth, and clenched his fists at his sides. "Say I agree to all that. Say I get you your discharge. What then?"

"Then I'll call you at your office, and tell you where you can pick up the negatives. All of them."

Simmons was breathing hard, still pale. Jack waited for him to nod, and finally, he did -- just a quick jerk of his chin, like someone was pulling on his hair. Which Jack supposed was a kind of poetical truth.

Jack turned away from his victim, and went down the sidewalk and crossed the street, watching the traffic carefully. It was hard not to look back. But he didn't. It wasn't hard at all to feel no guilt about the lies he'd told Simmons.

Four days later, when Martin called him into the big office on the base at Norfolk and handed him his papers, it was almost anticlimactic.

~~~~

It was the second pair of shoes that was keeping Jack from zipping his second duffel closed. He was tempted to just pitch them; leave them here in this musty barracks that had never seemed like home. He'd spent all of 13 days here out of the last seven months, not counting the one sleepless January night in a room for four, in the next building over. He pulled out the offending shoe and found another spot for it. He wedged it, grunting a little, and tried the zipper again. He heard a step at the open door, and then a careful knock. He turned just his head.

"Is it true?" Hank Boyd said, frowning. It was a strange echo of their conversation on the occasion of another surprising posting Jack had received. That hot afternoon in Memphis seemed like a lifetime ago. Jack got up and turned, wiping his palms on his thighs.

"Yeah," Jack said. "Got the official word this morning."

Boyd shook his head in disbelief. "I thought you were a lifer. Even after they moved you to the boat, you know? I thought--"

"Well, things change." Jack stood there, his hands hanging at his sides. He'd been through so much with this guy. Trained with him. Flown with him. Drunk with him, puked with him. Shared so much, down to that fateful night at Mr. Keller's place on Beale Street. He wished he could tell him more. He wished he could tell him ... everything.

"What's going on, O'Neill? You're too good of a pilot to--"

Jack grinned, just the side of his mouth. "Someday maybe we can go out for a drink, and I can tell you the whole story."

Boyd sighed, shaking his head again. He came a step closer, holding out his hand for Jack to shake. Jack looked down at his friend's hand and smiled, all the way this time, the full grin, and ignored it. Instead, he stepped close and threw both his arms around Boyd, who was too surprised to either back away or make a sound. He just vaguely patted Jack on the back a few times, and obviously was soon resisting his impulse to pull away.

"Because it's a hell of a story," Jack said, still grinning. He let go of Boyd and stepped back and Boyd quickly put his hands in his pockets. Boyd cleared his throat.

"You got a forwarding address?"

"Just write to my mom in Chicago. She'll have it."

"You don't know yet where you're going."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Jack said, and for some reason, he couldn't make himself stop smiling.

~~~~

"Yes," Daniel said, "Yes, yes, _yes_!"

Jack figured that was the best seal of approval he could possibly get. He bit his lower lip, gently, just to distract himself a tiny bit, and kept watching himself disappear into Daniel's willing body, then slide not quite all-the-way out again.

He kept his hands closed around Daniel's ankles, which were propped securely over his shoulders, and he noted that all the pillows he'd strategically placed at Daniel's hips and under his neck had not been knocked loose yet. Daniel wasn't quite healed. He was well enough to insist on this kind of reunion-and-victory sex, but still. Jack was trying to be careful.

Sweat was trickling at the small of Jack's back; gathering under the fringe of his short bangs. It was glowing on Daniel's chest, too, and shining in the lamplight on his forearms. It was a hot night in Memphis, and the ceiling fan wasn't doing much to cut through the heavy warmth in Daniel's bedroom, but Jack didn't care.

He hung on to Daniel's legs, and balanced on his own heels, his thighs and glutes singing, and pushed, intending on keeping the heavy intense rhythm going as long as Daniel could take it, or as long as he could, whichever... came... first.

Daniel's eyes were closed, his chin raised, and occasionally he said, "yes," or "Jack," but mostly he was groaning -- lovely guttural sounds in no language but his own. His two hands were cupped over his balls, leaving the head of his cock and a little of the shaft exposed, untouched. Pre-come gleamed at the tip, messily smearing against Daniel's belly when Jack pushed in all the way, a happy collision of flesh.

"Oh god, _fuck me,_" Daniel groaned, and the dirty words, the tone, made Jack groan in response and rock into Daniel that much harder.

That one night, after Daniel had gone without for a while, and Jack had made him come without ever touching his dick.... Jack narrowed his eyes, remembering, at the same time feeling his own orgasm starting to build, the coiling ecstasy just on the verge of getting away from him and pushing him into his own inevitable climax. So he bit his lip again, and watched Daniel's dick, watched himself push in, harder, faster.

So good, to know Daniel was mostly healed, mostly whole. So good to know Daniel wanted this, wanted him. So good to feel safe again. To feel this fucking good.

"God, Jack," Daniel called, and his legs jerked and his fingers tightened around his balls and his head came up, his torso curling just a little, and he was coming. Jack watched, groaning, and kept pushing into him, caught in the rush toward his own climax, that tight slippery heat. Their rhythm was all he knew -- driving in, pulling back, driving in again, watching Daniel come in white spurts against his own stomach, head thrashing from side to side.

"Jack," Daniel called again, stronger, and Jack answered him, calling his name, too, and Jack's head sank back as his body arched forward, driving his heels into his buttocks, shooting deep inside Daniel, emptying himself.

The white-hot wave ebbed. He could breathe again. He rested there, kneeling, unable to open his eyes yet, feeling the pulse of Daniel around him, the pulse of his own blood inside his dick, in his lips, in his balls and the big vein behind them.

"Christ," he managed, and tilted his heavy head forward. He was still gripping Daniel's legs. He tightened his grip and opened his eyes. Daniel was limp beneath him, one hand still cupped around his balls, one resting in the pool of come on his stomach as if he'd been interrupted in the middle of wiping it up.

Jack let go of one of his legs and carefully wiped the sweat away from his own eyes. Then he gently, slowly, lowered Daniel's calfs to rest around his hips, and leaned forward at the same time. He didn't want to pull out yet. Resting on his elbows, he gently set his head on Daniel's chest.

Jack felt one damp hand come up to rest on the back of his skull, messily ruffling his hair, and Jack smiled.

"Love you," Jack said, and closed his eyes again, listening to Daniel breathe.

He stirred from his blissful trance when he softened and slipped out. Daniel moved his hand, and Jack rolled to his side, straightening his legs with a happy sigh, cuddling close to Daniel's ribs despite the heat. He vaguely thought about reaching for the lamp, thought about turning it off, wanting to feel the velvet dark on his eyelids, but it seemed like way too much work. It was plenty nice and dark, it turned out, with his eyes shut, and Daniel smelled so good, and he could rest now.

"I've been thinking," Daniel said, startling Jack out of the light doze he'd fallen into.

"Hm," Jack said, hitching himself up slightly, and then resettling Daniel's head on his shoulder. His stitches were out, but the line of them was still red, and Jack could already see that he'd have a hell of a scar. His hair hadn't really grown in very well yet where the surgeon had had to shave it.

Daniel continued, "You're not going to be happy just hanging around here and being a kept man."

"I'm not?" Daniel's palm was gently circling the soft section of skin just under Jack's ribs, his fingers occasionally straying into the ticklish zone at Jack's side. It felt wonderful, relaxed and post-coital as Jack was.

"Shh, I'm actually saying something here."

"Okay, I'm not. For the sake of argument."

"Even though you know that would be fine with me, and you do make a mean grilled cheese sandwich, as I have recently had occasion to find out." Jack chuckled, but remained dutifully silent. "Seriously. Have you thought about what you want to do now?"

"Not really. Ever since I got back from that last hitch at sea I've been kinda..."

"Busy," Daniel finished for him, rueful yet with a smile in his voice.

"That's a good word, yeah." Jack covered Daniel's hand with his own, and Daniel responded by turning more to his side and bending his leg over Jack's. It nestled his dick and balls against Jack's thigh, which made Jack smile all over again, inside and outside.

"Pilot," Jack said thoughtfully. "I could relocate here, approach the commercial airlines about work."

"Yes," Daniel said, and the way he said it made Jack sure he really did have An Alternate Plan for the Future, capital letters.

"But?" Jack said.

"But I'm thinking, although you're right about the opportunities in flying here, that for the time being, it might be a wise idea for us to lie low, so to speak. I'm actually thinking that we should leave completely for awhile. And David has given me the perfect opportunity."

"David?"

"David Jordan, the department head at Memphis State. Before? Before you went back east this last time? When we were kicking around our plans, what to do about Simmons, before your old friend came through with his?"

"Yeah?"

"David made me an offer. He and Paul had been worried about me. They talked, when you had Paul call him." Daniel was warming to his subject, his hand speeding up its petting and broadening its area of coverage. His voice had lost its sleepy, after-sex tone. "David told me how worried he was, after I had been beaten. And he offered to let me go to Egypt, in August, in his place. When he and Sarah Gardner had called on me here, after you brought me home from the hospital, they told me they had received confirmation that they had a new permit for a potential site for Deir el-Bahri, and that David had planned to go himself, like he did in '55, but he offered to take my classes and send me in his place. To get me out of harm's way."

"Deir el what?"

"Sorry; it's Arabic; it's a burial site in Egypt that David's been interested in for years, he and some of his colleagues from the U.K. Detail. Not important now unless you eventually, you know, want the Ancient Egypt briefing. Anyway. My point is: We could go. Both of us." Daniel's hand stopped stroking and tightened against Jack's ribs, holding him. "We could move, to Cairo, for a while. I know someone there, from years back, who would be a good patron for us. Someone with good connections with the new government. He could get you a job. You could fly, and I could dig, and, well..."

"And they all lived happily ever after?"

Daniel turned his head at that, pressing his eyes into the soft crease where Jack's arm met his shoulder. Daniel's arm tightened around his ribs. He felt Daniel's breath hitch.

"I don't dare say that yet, Jack. I don't want to jinx this." Daniel's voice was muffled. Jack tightened his arm around Daniel's shoulder and bent his head over until his lips were in Daniel's hair.

"I've never been to Egypt yet," Jack said, thoughtfully. "Got to see Italy and Spain, and a bit of Greece. Not Egypt."

Daniel let go of him just enough to pull himself up and press his mouth to Jack's.

~~~~

 

_read about you in a Faulkner novel,  
met you once in a Williams play..._

 

They went back to Beale Street, to Keller's place, the night before they were to take the train to Chicago, so Jack could say goodbye to his family, and then continue on to New York and their overseas flight. They were staying in a hotel; Daniel had closed up the house and they'd sold both cars.

It was blues night again, and Jack had been smiling to himself all evening, because Daniel was wearing the same linen suit he'd been wearing the night Jack had first seen him.

They sat at a different table, though -- over against the wall. Jack had a good view of the guitar player, though he could only see the back of the piano player's head. Audra was their waitress again, and as before, a lot of people came over to speak to Daniel, to say goodbye, in fact, and Daniel introduced Jack to them all.

At one point, leaning over Jack to shake someone's hand, Daniel put his free hand on the back of Jack's chair, and when they were alone again at their table, he left it there. It gave Jack a strange thrill. They had never done anything remotely like that in public before, but he figured this was as safe a place as any. So, after he tossed back his second shot of Southern Comfort -- another memory, there -- he put his hand on Daniel's knee, and he didn't try to be subtle about it at all.

He leaned back in his chair and let the old raucous blues wash over him, feeling Daniel's hand against his back, and every now and then he'd glance over and admire Daniel's profile.

The song ended, and on the little rickety stage, B.B. King thanked the audience warmly, and took out a handkerchief and mopped his face. Still applauding, Daniel leaned over to Jack.

"You heard Bud Powell's gone to France. Left the States permanently."

"Can you blame him?" Jack said, clapping, too, as he leaned to catch Daniel's words over the applause and the cheering.

"No. No, I really can't. Not with what's happening here." The applause died, and there was some reshuffling and muttering among the musicians on the stage, and the audience murmured, waiting for the next number.

Daniel folded his hands around his tumbler of gin. "This is full circle, I guess. Tomorrow is it... So...." He cleared his throat, and he looked so earnest, so concerned. It made Jack's heart turn over. "Any regrets, Jack?"

Jack grinned, and he leaned back in his chair and replaced his hand on Daniel's knee.

"What's the famous quote -- 'I think this is the start of a _beautiful friendship.'_ "

Just then, B.B. counted them off, and the twining, complicated blues started up again, but this time it was Daniel's laughter that was the real music, to Jack's ears.

 

_one of these mornings  
you're gonna rise up singing  
spread your wings  
and take to the sky_

until that day   
ain't nobody can harm you  
with daddy and mammy  
standing by

summertime  
and the living is easy  
fish are jumping  
and the cotton is high

your daddy's rich   
and you mam is good looking  
so hush, little baby,   
don't you cry.

 

THE END


End file.
